


The Charming of Severus Snape

by SnapeFangirl



Series: Empaths & Occlumens [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Empath, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Love, Mild Smut, Personal Growth, Romance, Slow Burn, Yule Ball (Harry Potter), so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 85,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnapeFangirl/pseuds/SnapeFangirl
Summary: The first time they meet, Severus shuts her down—both her professional request and her secret empathic ability. Still, he’s no match for Hogwarts’ new Magical Arts teacher Anne Swanson. She’s determined to get him onboard with the school-wide CHARM initiative she’s launching and she’s armed with a plan to use his own arrogance against him.As she gets to know Severus, however, Anne discovers more than scowls and strictness. Tall, dark professor with a troubled past and a secret quest? Yes please. Now if only he’d quit panicking over the racy feelings he can’t help leaking out to her and justexplainabout this huge, mysterious risk she’s taking on by wanting to be closer to him...Story starts at the beginning of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. COMPLETE.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Severus Snape, Neville Longbottom & Severus Snape, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Empaths & Occlumens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909984
Comments: 195
Kudos: 272





	1. Never Meet Your Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Severus Snape, I’d like you to meet our new head of Magical Art, Anne Swanson.”
> 
> Anne broke into a wide grin as she extended her hand. _This_ was Severus Snape? She’d been expecting someone closer to Dumbledore’s age; this man, with his sharp eyes and his jet black hair, looked only a few years older than her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: J. K. ROWLING IS A PROBLEM
> 
> What are the ethics of writing fanfiction in a fandom whose creator is using her power and influence to do major harm against a vulnerable sector of society? I don’t know the answer, but it’s a question everyone who writes or reads Harry Potter fanfiction should be asking themselves right now.
> 
> At the very least, I believe, it’s important to clarify that I do not agree with or support the transphobic views expressed by J. K. Rowling. I acknowledge the existence of transgender people as part of the naturally occurring spectrum of gender. I believe we all have the right to claim and live as the gender that best reflects our true identity, regardless of physical characteristics, and to have our gender identity respected. Why on earth not? It hurts no one and it makes us feel whole (I use “us” here because gender identity part of all of us, even if most cis people like me take it for granted).
> 
> It’s impossible to separate art from artist in this case, because Rowling is alive and _currently_ using her power and influence to actively spread harmful misinformation against a community of people already suffering societal violence, prejudice and disbelief. If we consume her media—if we purchase her books or watch her movies or visit her theme park—we are directly financially supporting the harm she’s doing. I can’t, in good conscience, do that and I hope you come to the same decision for yourself.
> 
> The issue gets fuzzier around fanfiction. By contributing to this fandom with my writing, I worry that I’m reigniting or strengthening my readers’ connection to the original work, encouraging them to further consume and financially support it—I don’t want that. But another part of me argues that the only way to attempt to distance art from artist in this case is to literally take control of the work for ourselves. To write our own stories. To provide existing fans of the Harry Potter series with an alternative way to experience its world and characters, a way that lessens support of the harm being done by its creator.
> 
> Then again, maybe I’m just rationalizing to give myself permission to keep writing this story.
> 
> I love the Harry Potter series. Obviously, you do too, if you’re reading this. What are your thoughts on the ethics of continuing to interact with and participate in this fandom?
> 
> (Shout out to Lindsay Ellis, who absolutely will not read this, but whose YouTube video “Death of the Author 2: Rowling Boogaloo” made me think deeply about this issue)

He was very tall and dressed all in black. Anne had him pegged for the Hogwarts choir conductor. _Flitnick? Flatwick?_ The name was on the tip of her tongue as she crossed the Great Hall aisle to meet him.

Fortunately, Albus Dumbledore spoke first: “Severus Snape, I’d like you to meet our new head of Magical Art, Anne Swanson.”

She broke into a wide grin as she extended her hand. _This_ was Severus Snape? She’d been expecting someone closer to Dumbledore’s age; this man, with his sharp eyes and his jet black hair, looked only a few years older than her.

“It’s an absolute honour to meet you, Professor Snape,” she said, star-struck enough to blush slightly. “I’ve read your work extensively and I’m a huge admirer of your contributions in the Charms and, of course, Potions fields. In particular—”

“A pleasure,” Snape interrupted, his hooked nose wrinkling as he tugged his hand back from her. 

Anne almost gasped: suddenly, he wasn’t there. Sure, he was still standing right there in front of her, but the emotions she’d been sensing from him—disdain for Magical Art, distaste for how long she’d held the handshake—had completely cut out. It was as if he had simply closed a door in his mind and left her and her empathic perception scratching their heads out on the stoop. How on earth was he doing that?

“If you'll excuse me,” Snape said, pulling his cloak tighter around him, “I have other matters to attend to.”

“Perhaps we could talk after the orientation meeting,” she started to say, but he had already turned and begun striding across the hall.

She watched him leave, her heart sinking. It’s not like she’d expected the creator of the Muffliato spell to be a bubbly, sociable person, but even still, she’d hoped they might be friends.

“Ah,” Albus said, raising his hand to greet a very short man who had just entered the Great Hall. “Come, Anne. Let me introduce you to our Charms professor and Head of House Ravenclaw. Also, our choir conductor.”

Anne put on a welcoming smile as they approached. _Flatwick? Flitnick? Flutewick?_

* * *

“Thank you, Professor Flitwick,” Albus said as the small man sat back down. “Anyone who has further questions about the Yule Ball or would like to help in the planning can please speak to him after the orientation meeting.”

 _See Flitwick re: Yule Ball planning_ Anne scribbled in her notebook. She was the only person sitting at that long Great Hall table who appeared to be taking notes, but then again, she was one of only two new staff members.

“Well, that concludes all matters relating to the TriWizard tournament,” Albus said, holding his glasses above his eyes as he squinted down at a scroll of parchment. “We have one last announcement, from our new Magical Arts teacher, Anne Swanson. It’s about a new initiative she’s working to launch here at Hogwarts.”

Anne rose, smiling, to a stand, trying not to let the emotions of the room distract her; public speaking was always a bit stressful for empaths, but at least this crowd of staff was relatively small.

“At my last school,” she said, “in Ottawa, Canada, we had huge success with this initiative, which I’m now calling CHARM—the Continuing Hogwarts Academic Relations Motive. Basically, by coordinating our efforts and resources, we can better support one another and create a more cohesive environment for the students.”

The staff stared at her in polite attention, almost all of them radiating confusion or boredom. Minerva McGonagall, with whom she'd already discussed the initiative, gave her an encouraging smile.

“Let me give you an example,” Anne continued. She looked out across the faces at the table and prayed she’d be able to remember everyone’s name. “Professor Sprout—you grow mandrake roots in your second-year herbology class, right?”

“Pomona will do, dear,” the rosy-cheeked witch said, smiling. “And yes.”

“Pomona, right. And Madame Pomfrey, you make use of the roots in the hospital wing?”

“I do,” the healer said, nodding.

“That’s a good start,” continued Anne, “but we can take it a step further. Currently, no one’s collecting the mandrake _tears._ The tears could be of use to Professor Snape, whom I believe brews Boneham’s Bane potion with his fourth year students?”

Resting his head in one hand, elbow on the table, Snape answered with a slight nod and a slow blink.

“So _that’s_ what I’m talking about,” Anne said, smacking one hand into the other to emphasize her point. “To go one step further, Professor Snape might consider switching from Boneham’s Bane potion to Gloverwand potion, which is at the same level in the fourth year syllabus and uses similar ingredients. The Gloverwand potion could be of use to Professor Hagrid in handling pixies with his third-year students. And pixie droppings, of course, would in turn make powerful fertilizer for Professor Sprout—Pomona—especially for strains in the Tentacula family.”

Pomona and Hagrid grinned at her, impressed, and she was finally able to sense another emotion from Snape: he was surprised that a lowly art teacher could be so well-versed in such a wide range of subjects. Even his outward expression had mellowed from contempt to mere dubiousness.

From some other teachers, however, Anne still sensed puzzlement. One man, who now raised his hand, had found it particularly difficult to follow her point. She nodded to address his question.

Clamoring up from his seat, the man said: “We haven’t met yet, but I’m Professor Brock Haberdash.” Brock was tall with a mop of shaggy blond hair and a crooked grin. Despite the crinkle of crows feet starting at the corners of his eyes, he gave the impression of a rumpled, mischievous schoolboy. “I teach Xylomancy—there’s no, like, pixies or ham potion or anything. Can I still help with your project?”

Anne nodded, then purposely let her notebook fall from her hands; the bend to pick it up bought her a moment to sift through the new emotions that had bubbled up in the crowd. 

She sensed, from Brock, that his question was motivated more from personal attraction to her than professional interest in her project. This hunch was echoed and confirmed by the collective internal groaning she felt from several of the other teachers. She got the impression that Haberdash, though liked well enough by most, was considered something of a playboy and not to be taken too seriously.

An even stronger reaction to Brock was radiating from Snape: contempt. The feeling was completely unshielded and even echoed physically in a sneer on Snape’s face; apparently, he felt no need to conceal _this_ particular sentiment.

“Good question, Professor Haberdash,” Anne said. “You raise an excellent point: This initiative shouldn’t be limited to simply sharing materials. We can also share ideas and teaching efforts, like having a teacher from one subject guest lecture in another class. For example, Professor Vector might teach a workshop on how Arithmancy is used in curse-breaking in Professor Moody’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class. It’s a great way to show students how the different aspects of magical study interlock, plus introduce them to subject areas they might otherwise overlook.”

Riffling through her notebook, she pulled out a sheet of parchment. “I’ve got a sign-up sheet here for any teachers who are interested in this project—I’ll leave it here on the table after the meeting, then keep it posted on the door to the Magical Arts room.” She gave a small nod to the table before sitting back down. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thank you, Professor Swanson,” Albus. “That concludes our staff orientation. I wish you all the best for the school year and look forward to seeing all of you here again tomorrow evening when we welcome the students back to Hogwarts.”

The teachers pushed back from the table, some clustered together to chat excitedly over one matter or another, and others rushing off to their own offices. Hagrid and Pomona made a beeline for Anne, eager to chat about the new initiative. Anne, however, excused herself for a moment, promising to return shortly.

She chased after Snape, who had been the first out the door of the Great Hall, his black cloak snapping behind him like the mast of a ship.

* * *

He was halfway across the foyer, eager to return to the experimental new potion he’d left bubbling in his chambers, when a voice behind him called: “Professor Snape! Do you have a minute?”

Severus turned, swallowing a groan. A woman with long chestnut hair and a milky, pixie-like face was chasing after him: the new art teacher. She was quite pretty; that, in addition to her peppy demeanor, made him wary. Attractive, popular people always expected to get what they wanted, especially from less appealing individuals like himself. They rarely deserved it, in his experience, and he took satisfaction in denying it to them.

“I wanted to talk to _you_ in particular about the CHARM initiative,” she said, giving him a bright smile (transactional, no doubt). 

He let his eyelids droop low in a show of boredom. “And why do I, in particular, have the honour?”

“Well, because you’re the head of Potions,” she answered, shrugging, “and Potions is the center of the web. It has the most to offer to the other subject areas—and the most to gain in return.”

He stared blankly at her, hoping it would make her feel like an idiot.

She forged on: “Would you be open to teaching a lecture in one of the other classes? Perhaps a workshop on sedation and de-stimulant potions for Professor Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class?” 

“Hagrid’s class?” he sneered. “No, I think I have more than enough work with my own class, teaching ham-fisted morons to brew anything stronger than tea. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned and headed toward the stairs leading down to the dungeon.

“What about having a guest lecture in your own class then?” she asked. Good Godric, she was _following_ him. “I’ve always kept a hand in Potions—I would love to teach a class.”

Severus scoffed and quickened his pace. “I hardly think you’re qualified.” He started down the stairs.

“Not an advanced class,” she said, clamouring down after him. “But anything first year to fourth year, no problem. I would be happy to put together a sample lesson plan for you to look over and if there are any issues you don’t feel confident in—”

“Let me make myself clear.” Severus came to a sudden stop and whirled on her, causing her to fumble to a halt. She was _very_ pretty, he saw at this closeness. Pretty enough that she’d probably never heard the word _no_ fall from a man’s mouth in all her life. Well, she was going to hear it today.

“Professor…?” He hadn’t bothered to remember her name.

“Swanson,” she said, her eyes going all big and sad like a puppy’s. “But you can call me Anne.”

"I see no reason to bring an art teacher into my classroom, _Anne,"_ —his voice was dripping with condescension—"as most of my students make arts and crafts out of their cauldrons as it is. If you’re looking to nose your way into other people’s specialties, I suggest you try Professor Trelawney in Divination. You can help her interpret the abstract art at the bottom of her teacup.”

He enjoyed watching her mouth flap, grasping vainly for words, before he turned and sped away down the stairs.

* * *

Anne stormed back up to the Great Hall, flushed and fighting back angry tears. She felt like a complete fool—just the way Snape had intended to make her feel, her empathic sense had confirmed. _Never meet your heroes,_ she thought to herself, trying to shake it off. 

Pomona and Hagrid were still waiting for her, sitting across from each other at one of the tables like the world’s most lopsided bookends. They jumped up, concerned, when they saw the look on her face.

“My dear, what happened?” Pomona asked, putting a comforting hand to Anne’s wrist.

“Severus Snape,” Anne spat, flopping down into one of the chairs. _“What_ is that man’s problem? If he’s that rude to someone he just met, I can't even imagine how he must be with the students.”

Pomona and Hagrid exchanged a knowing glance.

“Don’ pay any mind to Snape,” Hagrid said, shaking his head. “Clever 'nough fellow, but he’s got a real mean streak to him. ‘Bout as friendly as a cactus.”

“Oh, cactuses aren’t so bad,” Pomona piped, giggling.

“Yeh’d be wise to keep yer distance from him, tha’s all I’m sayin’.”

“But I was really counting on Potions for CHARM,” Anne groaned, slumping her elbows onto the table. “It’s a key subject, it connects to so many others. I _need_ Snape on board.” She took a deep breath and exhaled, relaxing her shoulders. “I’ll just have to try him again in a few days, try a new approach.”

She could sense Pomona wanting to say something more to try to dissuade her, but the little witch only shook her head, sighing.

Hagrid, on the other hand, put his hand on her shoulder and said: “I’m warnin’ yeh, he’s too stubborn to sway and he’ll sting yeh for yer efforts. Do yerself a favour an' leave him be.”

Anne blinked off into space, letting his words float past her like bubbles. Already, a plan was beginning to form in her head. A plan to use Snape’s own arrogance against him.

Turning to Pomona, she asked, “Do you ever grow snargaluff?”


	2. Guessing Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swanson rested her hands on his desk and leaned forward slightly, her long chestnut hair spilling from her shoulder. “Since you’re so clever, let’s make a wager out of it: If you can correctly identify the powder using only your senses and your wand, you keep it. If not, I take it back.” She raised her eyebrows, challenging him.
> 
> Severus leaned back in his chair, considering. Well, pretending to consider. In truth, this challenge was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day and he hadn’t the faintest intention of turning it down, but he wasn’t about to announce that to her.

There was a clatter of sliding chairs as Severus dismissed his final class of the week, a pimpled mob of gangly first-years. They were all hopelessly inept, of course, but no more so than any other first-year class he’d ever been inflicted with. 

Staying seated where he was, he reached across his desk for the heavy, mildewed book he was reading as the last students bumbled their way out his door. Surprisingly, none of them had earned detention this afternoon; the fates had treated him to a bit of quiet, solitary reading time before dinner.

“Hello, Professor Snape!”

Or perhaps not. 

He flicked his eyes briefly up from his tome. Merlin’s beard, it was the bloody new art teacher. He’d expected the repellant effect of their first and only conversation to ward her off him for at least a month, but here she was not a week later, waltzing into his classroom with a grin like a hundred-watt bulb.

“Professor Swanson,” he said, not looking up as she crossed the room toward him. “What a pleasant surprise.” He intended his sarcastic tone to convey that it was, in fact, not.

“Anne,” she corrected him. With a declarative thud, she set down a clear, corked vial of fine white powder in front of his book.

He paused a moment, then sat back slowly and stared at her, his eyes half-lidded.

“The CHARM initiative is going well,” she told him. “One of the other professors contributed this vial to my classroom materials. Given the contents, however, I think it may be more valuable to you.”

Severus looked down at the vial for a moment, then back up at her, blinking. Did she expect him to ask what it was? Of course he was slightly curious—potion-makers were _always_ curious about mysterious white powders in vials—but he certainly wasn’t going to _ask._

“If you don’t want it,” she said, “I’ll take it back. I can make use of it in my own class.”

“As what? _Texture?”_

Her mouth straightened into a firm line. She rested her hands on his desk and leaned forward slightly, her long chestnut hair spilling from her shoulder. “Since you’re so clever, let’s make a wager out of it. If you can correctly identify the powder using only your senses and your wand, you keep it. If not, I take it back.” She raised her eyebrows, challenging him.

Severus leaned back in his chair, considering. Well, pretending to consider. In truth, this challenge was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day and he hadn’t the faintest intention of turning it down; he just wasn’t about to _announce_ that to her.

“There are a million white powders in the world,” he said at last, “most of which have no magical properties. This could be baking powder or chalkdust. For all I know, it could be heroin.”

“Do I seem like the heroin type?” Swanson asked, relaxing her shoulders and smiling slightly. “I’ll narrow it down for you: it’s an ingredient in at least one of the recipes in at least one of the textbooks you have in this room. You should know what it is.”

He stared at the powder for a long moment, frowning, then picked up the vial. “Just my senses and my wand, you said? Do I need to be careful with it—is it hazardous?”

“I’m sure you don’t need any hints from me, Professor. You know the necessary precautions to take.” She stepped away and lifted herself backwards to sit perched on top of the nearest desk, a wildly presumptuous act that charming individuals always seemed to get away with. He almost scolded her for it, but then she crossed one smooth leg over the other and he had to glance away quickly before she caught him staring.

Right, the powder.

Severus held the vial out at arm’s length and carefully removed the cork. With smooth, gentle motions he shook out a few grains into a small pile on a silver tray on his desk.

Recorking the vial, he set to work with his wand: heating the pile (it didn’t melt), then freezing it (no effect). He tried a spell that levitated items if they were edible for human consumption (it wasn’t); a spell that caused items to whistle if they were flammable (it wasn’t); a spell that rattled organic matter (it was). 

It was a delightful puzzle, he had to admit. Perhaps the highlight of his dull, draining week.

It took five minutes to narrow the possibilities down to one likely candidate. Just one last confirmation needed…

 _“Tenebris,”_ he said, waving his wand in a circle over his head, and the room went completely dark. The only remaining light source came from the vial of powder, which glowed, pulsating. Just as he’d expected.

He re-illuminated the room and declared his answer: “It’s fairy bone, dried and crushed.”

“A gift from Hagrid, who comes across their remains in the Forbidden Forest now and then. It’s used in Meridiem Brew, is it not?” Swanson hopped down off the desk, smiling as though she might actually admire him. “Well done, Professor.”

Severus brushed off her praise with a curt nod, chiding himself. _She is not_ impressed _with you for solving her silly puzzle, you fool. She’s simply one of these frivolous featherbrains who smiles at everyone._

But that didn’t make her any less deserving of good manners. As she walked to the door, he called to her: “Thank you for the vial.”

She turned to flash him another of those smiles. He bent dismissively back to his book.

* * *

“Severus does not join,” Minerva McGonagall, one of the new CHARM committee members, had warned her. “He does not participate. I advise you to direct your efforts somewhere more fruitful.”

“He’s a grouch, that’s all,” Anne had countered with a flip of her hand. “And I know how to win over grouches.”

Her words echoed in her ears as she knocked on Snape’s classroom door during lunch the following Tuesday, bearing the bait for her next trap: a long, translucent green cylinder sealed with a chrome stopper. Inside, a dark, viscous substance jiggled.

At his desk, Snape glanced up from whatever paperwork had etched a scowl of disgust on his face. His brow unwrinkled when he saw her and a quick crackle of interest sizzled out from his mind. Interest in what she held in her hand, not her, but that was just fine.

With the powdered fairy bone she’d asked from Hagrid, knowing it would be a challenging but safely solvable riddle, she’d tricked Snape into accepting material from another teacher—the first baby step toward his participation in CHARM. With this next puzzle, she would try to get him to contribute something.

“Anne,” he greeted her, sitting back from his papers.

“That last guessing game was too easy,” she said, marching up to his desk with a sly, one-sided smile. “What do you say to something more challenging—and upping the wager a bit?” She plopped the cylinder down on his desk.

Snape folded his hands in front of him. “I’m listening.”

“Same rules as last time. Identify the ingredient using only your senses and your wand.” She slid back into her perch on top of the front-row desk. It bothered him, she knew, but he didn’t protest. “If you can identify it, you can keep it—and this item’s considerably rarer than the last one. If you can’t identify it, you give me two ounces of Polyjuice Potion.”

“Polyjuice Potion?” He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

“Finger-painting,” she answered, holding her tiny hands out to him. “Can’t do much with these little things. Say, let me get a look at your fingers?” 

Snape slid his hands under the desk, looking horrified.

“I’m kidding!” Anne laughed, shaking her head. “I use Polyjuice in my class to duplicate diatoms—microscopic algae with stunningly beautiful geometric bodies. Muggle artists used to arrange diatoms as an art form in the Victorian era.”

“Algae art.” He blinked at her. She would have assumed he was trying to insult her again, but a quick wriggle of awkwardness slipped from whatever shield he was using to guard his emotions from her. It seemed he wasn’t trying to intentionally offend her with his tactlessness this time; he was simply out of his element and uncomfortable.

“They’re really quite impressive,” Anne said. “A perfect blend of art and science—surely you can appreciate that.”

Snape gave a non-committal nod, then reached to pick up the green cylinder, peering closely at the substance inside.

She grinned, crossing her arms. “So, what do you say to the wager?”

“I say it’s a small loss for me,” he answered with a shrug, “and a smaller risk of losing.”

Anne bit her lip to keep from smiling. He was feigning disinterest, just like last time, but he couldn’t hide his curiosity from her senses. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be less effective at blocking out positive feelings.

“All right then, smart aleck.” She rested her hands on the desk she was sitting on, leaning backward into a comfortable position. “Have at it.”

Once again, she watched him perform spell after spell, weeding out whatever variables he used to come to his answer. This time, he was content to leave the substance in its container, and he levitated it in the air to avoid touching it. 

Only now, when he tinkered at his puzzle, could she feel his full, unguarded emotion: pure flow, the feeling of being fully present and engaged in an activity at the ideal level of challenge for your capability. She suspected he was dreadfully bored most of the time, that he didn’t find much joy in other aspects of his life. For Snape, flow was the ultimate emotional state he desired—and Anne, riding along on the high of his hunt, had the pleasure of experiencing it with him as such.

She knew he’d solved the riddle (this time after ten minutes) when she felt a thrill of accomplishment race through him—even before he enlarged the substance, checking for the tell-tale blue veining that would be his confirmation.

“It’s snargaluff gel,” he announced. “Extracted from the blossoms of the plant that bloom every ten years.” He shrunk the substance back to its regular size, holding the tube safely in one hand. He had been right to keep the substance contained—the vapours from the gel were toxic.

“For your Thornywood Potions,” she said, grinning at him. “Good job. I really thought I might stump you that time.”

He gave her the same brusque nod as he had the last time she’d congratulated him, and with the same quick, complicated swirl of emotion. It came and went too fast for her to catch. All she grasped was that there was a tiny part of him that wanted to return her smile; the rest of him was mortified at the urge.

“Well,” Anne sighed, slipping down from the desk. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, and this time she really had to bite down hard to keep from grinning. He gave a slight shrug. “I’ll give you the Polyjuice Potion. You only need two ounces?” 

“That would be great.” Now she couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you.”

That same complicated swirl flickered out from him, before he turned and crossed the room to his storage closet in four long strides.


	3. Tough Wagers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grinning, Anne held the up the jar. “Another guessing game. I think I might really have you this time.”
> 
> Severus scoffed.
> 
> “It’s a tough one,” she warned, crossing the room to him. “And I’ve got a tough wager to go with it.”

Severus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned back in his chair from the offending essay. He reached for his quill and crossed thick red Xs over several paragraphs. How was it that despite the hours he wasted on them, his students somehow seemed to be getting _more_ incompetent every day?

He scratched a scathing comment and a viciously accurate grade across the top of the page, then added it to the finished pile on his left. Heart sinking, he looked to the unfinished pile on his right, which was still larger.

He shook his head—enough for one day—and stood to begin packing up. His desk was nearly cleared when Anne strode through his door.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she sputtered, coming to a clumsy halt as she registered he was about to leave. She had a small mason jar in her hands. “I see I’m catching you at a bad time. I’ll come back tomorrow.” She started to back out the door.

“No, it’s fine,” Severus said, resting his bag and stack of papers back down on the desk. He shrugged. “I’m not in a hurry to be anywhere.” He eyed the jar in her hands. There was something red inside.

Grinning, Anne held it up to him. “Another guessing game. I think I might really have you this time.”

He scoffed.

“It’s a tough one,” she warned him, crossing the room to hand him the jar. “And I’ve got a tough wager to go with it.”

Raising the jar to take a good look at the contents—Sprite berries? No, too easy—he answered her: “I think I can manage it.”

“Can you identify the contents using what you have on you—your body, your senses and your wand?” She settled into her usual spot on the front desk. “If you can, I’ll switch Great Hall monitoring duty with you the week after next.”

Sitting at his desk, he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen the schedule yet.”

“We’re both on, but I’ve got the better slot,” she told him. “Nice, quiet breakfasts with Minerva. You’ve got dinners with Brock Haberdash.” 

He grimaced. She’d likely assume it was because of dinner (far rowdier than breakfasts, when most students were still groggy and relatively quiet), but it was because of Haberdash. The last time he’d suffered monitoring duty with Haberdash, the simpering oaf had spent each meal regaling him with asinine tales from his college Quidditch years, despite increasingly harsh and obvious social cues of discouragement. Severus hadn’t even been able to amuse himself by making sarcastic digs; there was no satisfaction to be gained from insulting a man too dense to realize he was being insulted.

Switching schedules was certainly an attractive wager.

“And in the unlikely event that I fail?” Severus asked.

Anne hesitated a moment, chewing her lip. “If you fail, I get to teach one of your classes next week.”

“Ah. So that’s what this is all about.” He sat back at his desk, nodding grimly. There it was—the true reason she kept coming back here. He’d known there must be some manner of agenda to it; He was far too sensible to believe the charismatic new teacher the staff all flocked to chat with in the Great Hall was here seeking his friendship.

“Oh, not entirely,” she said with a lilt. “I suppose it was also about tricking you into speaking to me civilly.” 

She held his gaze on that note, her eyes cutting into him with a sharpness he wouldn’t have thought possible from her. Did she expect an apology from him? He struggled to remember now what it was he’d actually said to her the day they met. Surely nothing _that_ terrible.

“But yes,” Anne continued, sighing, “I still cling to the hope that you’ll consider having some level of involvement in CHARM.”

CHARM, of course. He’d belittled her project. And perhaps her intelligence. A tiny pang of guilt sounded in his stomach, but he did his best to ignore it.

“Well,” she said, motioning to the jar on his desk, “What does it matter either way if you’re so sure of yourself? Come on, what do you say?”

Severus paused to consider the wager, lacing his fingers to make a rest for his chin. Much as he was resistant to having some other person teach his class, especially someone completely uncertified in the subject, there was reasonable evidence that she could manage it. The two ingredients she’d brought him had been well-chosen and she’d correctly stated the potions they were most commonly known for. Actually, thinking back to what she’d said during the orientation meeting, she seemed surprisingly well-versed in a number of disciplines—now why hadn’t he taken _that_ into consideration two weeks ago, before he’d unsheathed his razor tongue and torn a strip out of her?

Finally, he unlaced his fingers and looked up. “I say, since I intend to give you my worst class if I fail, that this is a win for me either way.”

She beamed her blinding smile at him. “I’d be happy with any class! I mean— _if_ you fail, that is.”

“Which is extremely unlikely.” He picked up the jar.

* * *

Anne leaned back on the desk she sat on, enjoying the all-encompassing sensation of curiosity and engagement that flowed from Snape as he opened the jar and rolled three red orbs into his palm. _These_ tiny globes weren’t something she’d asked around for from the staff; she’d brought them with her from back home out of pure sentimentality, their jar wrapped in thick hand-knitted socks at the bottom of her trunk.

Waving his wand, Snape set to work casting spells.

Then, only two minutes later, he sat back in his chair and a wave of disappointment rolled through him. “So much for a challenge,” he sighed. “They’re sprite berries. How very _Canadian_ of you.” He rolled them off his hand back into their jar.

“But what species of sprite berries?”

His head snapped up at her. “What species of—? Have you completely lost your mind?”

Anne shook her head. “Go on, what species are they?”

“Bet’s off, that’s not a fair task.” Frowning, he handed her back the jar. “I can’t believe I almost let you teach my class. Even a third-rate potion-maker knows you need to be incredibly careful about labelling sprite berries. It’s next to impossible to distinguish one species from another without comparing the leaves.”

“If they’re so hard to tell apart,” she said, tilting her head skeptically, “how do birds manage to do it?”

Snape scowled at her. The cannons of a tiny war rang out from inside his mind: he was trying to discern whether she was swindling him or just inept. A fog of disappointment hung heavy over the battlefield.

“No, really,” Anne insisted, “I can tell them apart.”

“Sure you can,” he sneered, reaching to pack up his papers.

“I mean it, there’s a way to tell them apart!” She hopped down from the desk and grabbed his arm to stop him, feeling the flare of his temper. “New bet. Line up whatever species of sprite berries you have in your stores and I’ll tell you which is which.”

Jerking his arm away, he stood back from the desk and paused to consider her proposition. 

He raised a cautious eyebrow. “You’re being serious?”

“Yes!” she cried, holding her hands out in frustration.

“You’re telling me you want to take this bet with the same stakes?”

_“Yes!”_

Snape stared at her for a long moment. Then, without changing his expression or saying a word, he stomped off to his storage closet. 

_And now he_ knows _I’m inept_ , Anne thought, rolling her eyes.

His arms full of jars, he returned to the desk. She felt him shield his mind tightly against her as he began lining up berries along his desk, carefully double-checking and then hiding away the labelled jars.

“As you can see,” he said, placing the final berry on the desk, “I happen to have all five species of sprite berry: cardinal, jay, lark, cuckoo and wren.” He added sarcastically: “Or at least I _think_ I have them all, assuming the labels are correct.”

“And you never wondered why they’re all named after birds?”

“Some enchanting bit of local lore, no doubt.” He motioned to the berries. “Well, come on then. Let’s see this arcane little trick from the snowy Yukon tundras or wherever it is you’re from.”

“I’m from Ontario,” she snapped, feeling her jaw clench. Sweeping her hands out like a performing bard, she jeered: “Watch and learn, Professor.” It was hard to keep the mocking out of her voice, to keep from stooping to his level when he was acting like such a pompous bully. It wouldn’t serve her, though, she reminded herself. She needed him on her side. And she needed to relax her vocal chords, or this would never work. 

Taking a deep inhale and exhale, she crouched in front of Snape’s desk, her face close to the berries. She’d softened her tone to silk by the time she said: “This is something my grandmother taught me when I was little.”

Cupping her hands over her mouth, Anne gave a high, wavering whistle like the call of a bird.

Nothing happened.

* * *

Severus stared at her, eyebrows raised in a show of pity. Good Godric, this was hard to watch. The more she embarrassed herself, the more she embarrassed him—because he’d actually begun to entertain the notion she might be more than a depressingly typical, tiresome person after all. It was a credence he rarely afforded new acquaintances; now he remembered why.

“Just give me a minute,” Anne told him, shaking her hands to her sides as though she could shake loose the pesky reality that was blocking her efforts. “I haven’t done this in a long time.” She leaned forward, cupped her hand over her mouth and whistled again.

There was a long, pathetic silence. 

Then, faintly, the berry furthest to the left echoed her whistle back to her.

“There!” she cried, pointing to the berry. “That one’s the cardinal!”

He gaped at her, incredulous. She was right.

One by one, Anne imitated the bird calls—the high trill of the wren, the low song of the cuckoo—and the berries echoed them back, identifying themselves. She wasn’t able to get the lark’s song quite right, but she found the lark sprite berry by process of elimination anyway.

Severus watched her as she sang her songs, her face serene and even joyous in its concentration. This unusual bit of practical theatre didn’t pass his benchmark for brilliance, but it did make her one of the strangest individuals he’d ever met. And thereby, one of the most interesting.

“Well,” he said, returning the berries to their respective jars, “This has been surprisingly… educational.” He wasn’t accustomed to being corrected in matters related to his own field, or to losing graciously; it was an effort not to say something defensively abrasive.

“So you’ll let me teach the class then?”

“That was the wager, yes. It’s a poor win though, in my opinion. I’ll give you my fourth year class, third period Thursday, with that arrogant ass Harry Potter and his friends. If you can get even three of them to brew a passable Hygenia Potion, I’ll die of shock.”

Anne gave him an exaggerated side-eyed glance. “Sounds like another wager.”

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “Really, that would just be taking advantage of you. Singing to sprite berries is one thing, but trying to get this band of wild apes through their course syllabus is like herding cats.”

“So no bet, even if it gets you out of a week of dinners with Haberdash?” she asked, tilting her head coyly so her hair fell over one of her eyes. 

It was quite appealing. The wager, that is.

“And what stakes shall I set in return?” he asked. “I’d sooner juggle snargaluff pods than teach an art class.”

“No! No art class!” she cried in alarm, then looked slightly sheepish. Apparently he was not the only teacher protective of his class. “Just afternoon tea with me and a couple of other professors, to discuss coordinating supplies for one another. Perhaps Pomona and Hagrid.” 

Severus stifled a groan. _Hagrid._

His distaste must have shown on his face. “Or just Pomona,” Anne added.

“And this is if you get three students to brew passable Hygenia Potion?”

“Let’s make it five students,” she said, putting her hands to her hips. “I could brew Hygenia Potion in my sleep.”

He shrugged, his tone turning cold and sarcastic. “Why not ten students? Surely any number above two is equally impossible.”

She frowned. “You don’t have much faith in my teaching ability, do you?”

“No, it’s not that.” He sucked the venom out of his voice. Merlin’s beard, was he really this out of practice at normal, amicable conversation? “Honestly, I’m not underestimating your skill. You’re just greatly overestimating my students.” 

“Four students, then,” Anne declared. She held out her hand to him.

He gave her a pitying shrug, then shook on the bet. “I hope you enjoy long, inane Quidditch stories—you’ll be hearing many of them at dinner.”


	4. Hygenia Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neville Longbottom let his mouth fall open in shock. What was the new teacher doing in here, chatting away to Snape? Hadn’t anyone warned her what an ogre he was? Most of the time, when other teachers stopped briefly by to deliver messages to him, they spoke from the safety of his doorway. They rarely smiled at him and they _never_ dared touch him.
> 
> The classroom fell silent out of sheer curiosity as the new teacher turned and stood open-shouldered at the front of the room.
> 
> “Good morning,” she greeted them, smiling. “For those of you I haven’t met yet, I’m Professor Swanson, from Magical Arts. I will also—just for today—be your Potions teacher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that made me realize what a HUGE EFFING NERD I am about this series. ;)

Her arms were so full, Anne didn’t even see Snape sitting there until she bent beside his desk to set down her heavy, brimming bags. He leaned forward, squinting into the bags, then blinked up at her with his eyebrows raised.

“I may have over-prepared a little,” she admitted with a shrug.She’d brewed multiple batches of Hygenia Potion over the weekend and crouched in front of her hearth to rehearse her full lesson for her mother last night via the Floo network. In addition, she’d taken a copy of the class attendance list and used last year’s yearbook to match faces to all the names.

Okay, so she may have over-prepared a _lot._

She felt her face reddening under Snape’s gaze. Even though he’d disappointed her with his quick, arrogant judgement, he was still a brilliant wizard whose work she’d admired from afar for many years. She couldn’t help it: she wanted to impress him today, and she even thought she had a shot at succeeding. Thanks in part to following his published work, she wasn’t half bad at potion-making. And she was _great_ at teaching.

“Will you be staying to watch me teach?” she asked him.

“With _this_ class?” He glared at the students as they began to enter. “They’re likely to blow something up or set fire to the drapes. I’ll stay and grade papers.”

“Right here at the desk?” Her shoulders dropped.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s just…” She paused a moment to consider her words. If she had any hope of winning their bet by getting four students to brew a proper potion—and thereby winning Snape's full participation in CHARM—she needed the unhindered use of all her best teaching techniques. “If you’re going to let me do this… Please, let me _do_ it. Give me a chance to try it my own way.”

“I’ll move, then,” he said curtly, gathering his papers.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, putting her hand on a paper to hold it down. “I just mean… Will you promise not to… Will you not make comments during the class? Or interject anything?” She tried to soften her delivery with a smile. “And maybe try not to give any reactions, with your face?”

He stared at her.

“You’re very intimidating to students. You know that, right?”

Snape huffed. “I will sit here—silently—without facial expression—and grade papers. Is that sufficient?”

“It’s perfect.” She patted his hand, smiling. “Thank you.”

* * *

Sitting at the farthest away desk in the room, Neville Longbottom let his mouth fall open in shock. What was the new teacher doing in here, chatting away to Snape? Hadn’t anyone warned her what an ogre he was? Most of the time, when other teachers stopped briefly by to deliver messages to him, they spoke from the safety of his doorway. They rarely smiled at him and they _never_ dared touch him.

The classroom fell silent out of sheer curiosity as the new teacher turned and stood open-shouldered at the front of the room.

“Good morning,” she greeted them, smiling. “For those of you I haven’t met yet, I’m Professor Swanson, from Magical Arts. As part of an initiative to bring together teachers and students of different subjects here in Hogwarts, I will also—just for today—be your Potions teacher.” She turned her head back toward the desk. “Thank you to Professor Snape for graciously providing me this opportunity.”

Snape didn’t look up from the papers at his desk.

“I’m really excited that I happen to be here for your class on Hygenia Potion,” Professor Swanson said, turning to stroll casually along the front row, “because it’s such a useful, real-life product. Most of you won’t need to shrink yourselves or put your hair standing on ends on a regular basis. Not that those potions aren’t of value too, of course,”—She flashed a grin at Snape, who still didn’t look up—“but Hygenia Potion is something many witches and wizards use weekly.

“Who knows what Hygenia Potion is used for?” She scanned her eyes over the class.

Nearly half the hands in the class went up, including Neville’s, which he raised just barely to his ear level. It’s not like she was going to call on him anyway. It was pretty much a universal law that teachers only called on him when he had no idea what the right answer was.

“Neville,” Professor Swanson called, smiling sweetly at him, “can you tell us about it?”

Neville’s heart stopped in his chest. Merlin’s beard, she knew his name. And she was smiling at him. She was smiling and her smile was as sweet and splendid as an ice cream sundae. She was smiling and looking right at him.

Because she was waiting for an answer from him. 

Neville struggled desperately to find his tongue as the two girls sitting at the desks beside him snickered. What class was this again? What was the question?

“Hygenia potion?” she repeated gently, still smiling.

“Well, it’s like taking a bath, sort of,” he stammered, his mouth suddenly bone dry. “It makes you, um, look clean and gets rid of the sweat smell.” Oh good griffins, he sounded so _stupid._ Why oh _why_ had he put his hand up? The two girls snickered again.

“You’ve hit an important distinction, Neville,” Professor Swanson said approvingly. “You’re right that Hygenia Potion makes you _look_ clean. It does _not_ replace actual bathing. If you’ve accidentally slept in and don’t have time to shower before class, however, Hygenia Potion will remove odors and dry out oily hair and skin for up to twenty-four hours.” 

The same two girls snickered once more at the mention of oily hair, but this time their eyes were on Snape.

Then every student in the room gave a collective stifled gasp as Professor Swanson hoisted herself up backwards to sit on the edge of Snape’s desk. Neville clasped a hands over his mouth—his new favourite teacher was about to be drawn and quartered by his most hated.

Eyebrows raised, Snape glared up at her.

“Now, you could just buy a bottle of this potion in Hogsmeade,” Professor Swanson continued, perched there casually in the lion’s jaws.

Snape bent back down to his papers. 

“Or, with a little practice, you can brew your own for a quarter of the price.”

Neville blinked hard. Was he dreaming? 

“A word of warning, however.” Professor Swanson held up her hand. “As I said, Hygenia Potion does not replace actual bathing. When I was about your age, I had a boyfriend who made that mistake. Guys, when that potion wears off…” She covered her nose. “...it is _not_ pretty.”

The students broke out in laughter. Actual laughter. In Potion’s class.

Neville pinched himself.

“Well, let’s get started,” Professor Swanson said. “Please open to page sixty-four in your textbooks and measure out the ingredients into piles along the edge of your desks.”

* * *

“Remember,” Anne called to the students, “The Atlantean sea snail shells are delicate—you need to use the Ghezult technique to crack them.”

A firework show of confusion and intimidation crackled across the room. With the exception of Hermione Granger in the front row, none of the other students radiated the slightest confidence or even recognition of the words _Ghezult technique._

Fortunately, Anne had prepared for just such a setback.

“Okay, we’re good for time, so let’s take five minutes to review the Ghezult technique.” She leaned over the side of the desk, reaching into one of her large bags to pull out two cartons of eggs. Waving her wand to distribute the eggs, she said, “I’ve nicknamed this the Muggle Omelette technique. For any of you who’ve ever cooked eggs the muggle way, the Ghezult technique is applying exactly the amount of force you need to crack a standard chicken’s egg.”

A stream of terror flew at her from Ron Weasley, whom she suspected had never cooked himself an egg by any means, muggle or magic.

“Take out one of your smaller bowls, and we’re going to practice cracking an egg in a single hit.” She demonstrated, picking up an egg and hitting it once, firmly but with restraint, on the edge of a bowl. Flexing her fingers to pull back the shell, she let the contents drop into the bowl. “For those of you who are already confident in your technique—” She eyed Hermione. “—you can practice your Repairing charm on the broken eggs. If you can manage it successfully on something as fragile as an eggshell, you’re sure to get an Outstanding on your Charms exam next year.”

For the next few minutes, the room clattered with the breaking (and not entirely successful repairing) of eggs. After several tries, the majority of the students had had at least one fruitful attempt at the technique. _Well, I only need four to get it right to win the bet,_ Anne reminded herself.

“All right,” she said, waving her wand to repair and recollect the eggs. “Let’s try it for real this time. Pick up your snails and continue following the instructions. Make sure you set aside the snail shells for later—we'll use them to test the potency.”

The class progressed, with Anne scanning through the crowd of emotions, using peaks of confusion or frustration to alert her when a student needed guidance. She felt a steady flow of aggravation from Snape, but she suspected that was more a reaction to the papers he was grading than to the activity in the room.

* * *

“Using your dropper,” Professor Swanson instructed, “add three drops of your potion to an outside section of your leftover shell. It’ll take a few minutes to see the results.”

Fighting to keep his clumsy hands steady, Neville aimed his dropper over his shell. A fresh, pleasant smell wafted to him from his cauldron—had he actually managed to get the potion right? 

Professor Swanson strolled down the center aisle of the class. “While we’re waiting, does anyone know why we use Atlantean sea snails in this potion? What property of these slugs might be useful here?”

No one raised their hand.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “An Atlantean sea snail’s only food source is juniper kelp, which some of you may have learned about in herbology.”

Neville smiled to himself. He’d learned all about juniper kelp for a project he did for Professor Sprout last year. With that one hint, the snail’s use in the potion suddenly made perfect sense. For once in his life, he felt proud to know the answer when no one else did—not even Hermione!—even if he was too shy to raise his hand and show it.

Suddenly, she was looking at him again. Professor Swanson. She was smiling at him. His pulse rocketed. Oh griffins, was she going to call on him again? Please let her call on him. No, no, please don’t. He couldn’t. He’d only make a fool of himself again.

Her smile turned a bit sad, her eyebrows curving, and then she looked away. Had he disappointed her?

His hand shot up. “Juniper kelp is used to disinfect wounds and dry out boils,” he said, staring straight down at his desk. “I guess the snails, they probably… Absorb some of those properties?” 

When he glanced up again, she was beaming at him. “That’s exactly right, Neville. The snails are infused with the cleansing properties of the kelp. Five points for Gryffindor.”

From the front row, Harry and Hermione turned their heads to grin at him. Neville felt himself staring back at them with his mouth wide open, stupefied.

“For some lucky people,” Professor Swanson continued, “like your talented Professor Snape, potion-brewing seems to come intuitively. But for the rest of us, learning about the properties of common potion ingredients can really help to demystify things. Before I go, I’ve got three recommended resources for anyone who’s having trouble in Potions, or who would like to dive in deeper.”

She waved her wand to the chalkboard, where a list of books and authors began to write itself out. “The first is a reference, not the kind of book you sit down and read. I suggest looking up ingredients as you use them to expand your knowledge. The second, written by our own Professor Sprout, is a bit more concise and focuses mainly on plant ingredients relevant for first to fifth year potions. Very useful studying for your O.W.L. exams.”

Hermione had her quill out, furiously scribbling down the booklist.

“The last, which you will notice is my own book, is more of a fun, relaxed guide to common potion ingredients, for those of you really struggling to understand how the pieces fit together, as I once did. All of these, of course, are available through the Hogwarts library.”

“Professor Snape,” she said, turning to him, “would you like to come and check the results?” 

* * *

As the last students made their way out of his classroom to lunch, Severus lingered at his desk, shuffling his papers and trying to decide what on earth he was going to say to Anne once they were left alone. Five successfully brewed Hygenia Potions. _Five._ What’s more, one of them came from Neville cauldron-cooking Longbottom—that on its own deserved some kind of lifetime achievement in teaching.

“So…” Anne said, swinging her arms as she approached his desk. She'd won the bet by a landslide—was she the type to gloat about it? “Afternoon tea with Pomona. How about Wednesday, after last period?”

“Yes, fine, that was my wager.” He ushered the matter aside with a wave of his hand, hesitated a moment, then exhaled and said: “I must admit, I’m impressed. It seems your patience in suffering fools bears its own reward, when it comes to students.” He winced at his own stuffy words. _Godric, Severus, when was the last time you paid a compliment?_

“Thanks,” she said with a small laugh.

He motioned to the writing on the chalkboard. “I didn’t know you’d written on the subject.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she answered, her eyes taking on a hint of sharpness once more. It faded away as she added: “Your research was extremely helpful to me when I wrote the chapter on venoms.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows shot up. He frequently published his own findings—findings he was quite proud of, actually—but he never expected anyone besides other potions authorities to read them. It certainly wasn’t something he anticipated people knowing about him.

“Just so you know,” Anne said, “I've given you my wager anyway—I already switched our monitoring schedules for next week. I’m not really a morning person and Haberdash isn’t so bad.”

“He is,” he corrected her. “He’s insufferable—so, thank you.” He glanced down at his hands, humbled by her thoughtfulness. “Can I give you something in return? Polyjuice Potion? Some of the fairy bone?”

“No, nothing else. But thank you.” She picked up her large bags, slinging one over each shoulder. “And thanks again for letting me teach today.” Anne headed for the hall, shifting the awkward weight of the bags.

When she reached the doorway, she hesitated. “Actually,” she said, turning back to face him, “There is something I still do want from you.”

Something in her tone made the pit of his stomach ache. It was strong, willful, but also painfully vulnerable—a combination he'd never dreamed possible.

“An apology.” She hunched slightly, one hand holding the opposite arm. “For the way you treated me when we first met. You talked to me like I was incompetent and it hurt my feelings. I’d like an apology from you for that. Not to settle a wager or repay a favour—only if you genuinely want to repair the damage.”

Her words stung him in a soft place that no words had reached for many years. He didn’t know how to process them. Yes, he’d said some harsh things to her when they first met out of misjudgement, but surely she must realize he’d changed his opinion of her by now, that he regretted what he’d said. Why should he have to say it out loud for her satisfaction? Did she feel she was _owed_ an apology? He said plenty of coarse words to people over the years, but he’d rarely bothered to apologize to anyone since—

Lily.

He’d apologized many times to Lily. And just look at all the good that had done.

Anne gave him a resigned nod and turned to leave.

She'd never said he _owed_ her an apology—she'd asked if he wanted to repair the damage. Did he _want_ to apologize to her? Were they to be friends? Is that what she was really asking him?

“You’re right,” he called to her, and she stopped and turned back to him. He cleared his throat. “I owe you… I want to apologize. I misjudged you out of my own egotism and I regret speaking to you the way I did. Will you accept my apology?”

Her smile sparked, then flamed. “Water under the bridge,” Anne said, nodding as she stepped back toward the door. “See you Wednesday, Severus.”

* * *

Minerva McGonagall sat at the end of the bench, trying to filter out the ruckus of the Great Hall enough to focus on the last of her lunch. She’d saved the chips for last, leaving them piled on the side of her plate. Chips were a treat in which she indulged only occasionally, on particularly trying days. It had been such a day so far, and she was savouring them.

The potato pile shifted on her plate as Anne plopped herself down across the bench, beaming.

“Don’t we look sprightly this afternoon,” Minerva commented, loading a chip onto her fork. “Finally managed to convince Filius to join the organizational committee?”

“Not yet,” answered Anne with a sigh and a shrug. “Oh—but you know what? I did get Severus to agree to a CHARM meeting with Pomona.”

Minerva leaned back from her plate, blinking. “I beg your pardon?”

“Uh-huh,” Anne said, casually fiddling with a lock of her hair. “You know, he’s not such a hard nut to crack. He even apologized for being so rude to me before.”

The old witch’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re not…? How did you…? But you only just got here!” She cleared her throat, straightening herself. “What I mean to say is, with what manner of magic did you manage that?”

“Imperius Curse,” Anne answered, winking as she reached across the table to steal a chip.

Minerva gave a short yip of a laugh that caught in her throat; she wasn’t entirely certain Anne was joking.


	5. Blundering Haberdash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne gave a sheepish laugh. “Well, I’m doing dinners with Haberdash this week and you’re right that _he likes to talk Quidditch._ I’ve never even seen a game before, so he explained the whole thing to me. He gets so excited about it… he made it sound kind of fun.” 
> 
> Severus suppressed an eye roll. If that was the kind of company she enjoyed keeping, it made her efforts to befriend him considerably less flattering.

Grabbing her plate, Poppy Pomfrey stood up from the bench. 

Then ducked, just in time.

Swinging just inches above her head, Filch’s mop made its way down the Great Hall aisle, carried by its cursing owner. It’s destination: a cluster of first-year Gryffindors, labouring under the mistaken notion that the dinner table made a swell court for a game of Wizard Pong. Filch seemed quite happy to correct them.

Poppy marched past the lot of them, tsking, to the front of the hall and up the steps to the raised, stage-like section where the professors sat during more ceremonial dinners (or when on monitoring duty). She pulled out a chair and sat down beside Anne, whom she couldn’t bear to watch eat alone up here another second. The poor woman was _new,_ for Merlin’s sake.

“Where on earth is your monitoring partner?” she asked, setting her plate down.

“Oh, hi Poppy.” Anne raised the edges of her mouth in a forced smile. “Brock’s, um… You know, I’m sure he’s just running a bit late.”

Just at that moment, as if conjured by his name, the sandy-haired professor strolled in through the Great Hall doors, his arms waving in animated gestures as he chatted with a group of students. They burst into laughter at whatever he’d just said to them.

Looking up from his entourage, Brock Haberdash caught sight of Anne and Poppy and waved to them, grinning. After nodding his goodbyes to the students, he made his way to the head table, hoisting himself directly up onto the stage rather than using the stairs.

“Hello, Anne!” he said, sitting down on the other side of her. “Isn’t this fun, us having dinners together for the week? Hello, Poppy!” He leaned forward past Anne to nod a greeting to her.

“You know, Brock,” Poppy said, raising a stern eyebrow, “you’re almost ten minutes late.”

“Am I?” he gasped, looking up at the clock. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Anne! It won’t happen again. Gosh, it’s awful having to eat up here alone—makes you feel a bit like a circus act.”

“It’s okay,” said Anne, giving a smile that was small but at least looked more relaxed. “But don’t leave me here alone tomorrow.”

“You have my word.”

Poppy sniffed and turned to her plate. If Anne was wanted to forgive his carelessness so easily, that was her business.

Brock reached forward for the peas. “So, how are you finding Hogwarts so far? What’s the biggest change from your last school?”

“Oh, lots of things,” Anne told him. “I suppose I don’t really understand the point of the four houses—why group all the like students together? Seems to me the best teams are made up of all different personality types.”

“Huh, that’s a neat idea,” he answered through a mouthful of peas (Poppy glanced away, grimacing). “You know, I always wondered which house I’d be in—I went to school in Australia, and they don’t do the different houses there either. Pass the potatoes?” Poppy slid them towards him. “I think I’d have been either in Gryffindor or Huff-and-puff.”

Anne stared at him. “Sorry, did you just say—”

“Really?” Poppy interrupted, putting a hand to Anne’s arm to halt her. _This_ was going to be rich. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, most of my favourite students are from those houses. The Gryffindors seem to like sports the most, so we always have a lot to talk about. And the Huff-and-puffs have the best sense of humour—I bet that’s where the funny name comes from.”

Anne choked on a mouthful of potato.

“Tell me, Anne,” Brock said, his eyes brightening. “Do you like Quidditch?”

* * *

Severus rounded the bend of the tower and groaned: Merlin’s beard, _another_ ring of bloody stairs. And here he’d thought the flights going down to his own apartment in the dungeon were bad.

At last, he reached the door to the chambers at the top of the tower and knocked. It was his first time visiting this particular suite at the far end of the east wing, above the library; it was always reserved for the office and living quarters of Hogwarts’ Magical Arts teacher.

“That’s quite a climb,” he commented to Anne as she opened the door to him.

“You should try it with a busted leg.” She pulled back the door to reveal a heavily bandaged leg and crutch. “Come on in, Pomona’s here already.”

She hobbled her way into the room, which was half office and half art studio. Painted canvases leaned against the long back wall in rows, broken only by a large desk covered in haphazard stacks of paper. At the far end of the room, an easel and stool were set up in front of a large window that looked out over the greenhouses. The other end, which Anne led him to, had mismatched chairs and couches arranged around a paint-splattered coffee table. 

Pomona Sprout sat on the loveseat, blowing over a cup of steaming tea. She smiled and nodded a hello.

Severus gestured to Anne’s leg. “Can I inquire what happened?” 

“Oh, it’s kind of embarrassing. I fell off a broomstick yesterday.”

“Anne is launching her Quidditch career,” Pomona said, with a small giggle. “Severus, let me get you a cup of tea. Anne, you sit.”

Anne teetered to an armchair, balancing against the crutch awkwardly as she lowered herself. “It was a bad fall. The bones are mending and Poppy says I’ll be back to normal in a few days, but for now…” She shrugged. 

“And you did this… playing Quidditch?” He took the chair beside her.

“Not exactly...” she answered with a sheepish laugh. “Well, I’m doing dinners with Haberdash this week and you’re right that _he likes to talk Quidditch._ I’ve never even seen a game before, so he explained the whole thing to me. He gets so excited about it… he made it sound kind of fun.” 

Severus suppressed an eye roll. If _that_ was the kind of company she enjoyed keeping, it made her efforts to befriend him considerably less flattering.

“What?” Anne asked, laughing. “Don’t you guys ever find other people’s interests contagious?”

“Well it’s one thing to go out and watch a Quidditch game,” Pomona said, “but asking Rolanda Hooch to give you a flying lesson…”

Anne shrugged. “I’m trying to expand my horizons. Oh, that reminds me...” She turned to Severus. “I’ve got a free period Thursday afternoons and I noticed you teach a seventh-year class. Would it bother you if I came and sat in? As a student, not a teacher. A _silent_ student,” she added quickly, “who won’t get in your way.”

Severus turned his hand palm-up. “If that’s really how you want to spend your time.” He was officially flattered again.

“I’m just enjoying the perks of Hogwarts,” Anne said. “Living above a library and getting free lessons.”

“Just maybe not flying lessons?” Pomona teased.

“We’ll see,” Anne countered, grinning at her. “But speaking of lessons…” She reached for a stack of papers on the coffee table. “I have copies of your syllabuses—syllabi?—for each year you teach. If you take a look through, you’ll see I’ve circled all the areas where I think there’s room for Potions and Herbology to work together.”

* * *

“The Fructus Potion is considerably more challenging to brew,” Severus said to Pomona. “But if you can supply enough satyr-tongue root for some additional attempts, I imagine most of my seventh-years can manage it in the end.”

“The roots shouldn’t be a problem,” Pomona said, standing to collect the empty tea cups.

Anne scribbled the change into her meeting minutes. “Excellent.”

She couldn’t help but smile, skimming back over her notes. After an hour of discussing the potential pros and cons of various options, they’d hit some major breakthroughs. Severus had agreed to switch several of the potions on his syllabus to appropriate-level substitutes that would benefit Herbology and other departments. Pomona, in turn, would add a few key plants to her roster and to share the harvest.

“At my last school, we enlisted students for extra gardening help,” Anne called to Pomona, who had moved back across the room to the kettle. “If you offer extra credit or use it as a way to boost a low grade—”

“Those little trolls!” Pomona shrieked, shaking her fist at the window. “They’re trying to break into my greenhouse!” She ran to grab her coat. “This happens _every year_ when the wishwood beans blossom—some smug student thinks they can rob me and get away with it. Well, we’ll just see about _that!”_ Racing out the door, she called back a thank-you to Anne for the tea.

Anne glanced at the clock. “I suppose it’s time I start heading down to the Great Hall for dinner anyway.” Twisting herself to a stand, she said to Severus: “Thank you again for coming to this. Hopefully CHARM sounds a little less pointless to you now.”

“I never thought it was pointless,” he said, reaching to open the door for her. “I just don’t like to be involved in things.”

“Well, thank you for being involved.” Anne hobbled through the doorway and paused at the top of the stairs. “You go along—it’ll take me ages to get down these stairs.”

“It will with that crutch,” he said, offering her his arm.

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Severus.” Taking his arm, they started down the stairs.

“So, how high up were you when you fell?” he asked her. Now that she was holding on to him, leaning her weight against him, she sensed he felt a bit awkward and was trying to cover for it with conversation.

“Stupidly high. Poppy says it’s a wonder I didn’t break every bone in my body.” She groaned, shaking her head. “It’s my own fault, of course. Rolanda asked me how much experience I had on a broomstick and I guess I overestimated myself. Truth is, I haven’t flown since I was a kid.”

“And you’re not seriously considering trying it again?”

“Well, now that I’m scared of it, I feel like I _have_ to. I don’t like being afraid of things.” She stumbled on a step, holding tight to him. “Brock says if I want to give it another try, he’ll show me some drills I can practice close to the ground. He says that’s better for building technique anyway.”

Though he held his arm steady to her, she felt him bristle internally at the mention of Brock Haberdash. Now that she had time to examine the sensation, she found it was a complex potion of feelings: annoyance, of course, but also a more abstract form of aversion, as though Brock represented some larger concept from which Severus felt himself separate and opposite. There was also a strong resentment that bordered on jealousy: the man received a level of appreciation and acceptance he didn’t merit—a level which Severus, though he felt himself more deserving, never received.

“How _are_ you enjoying your dinners with Haberdash?” he asked dryly as they reached the bottom of the stairs and she let go of his arm. They continued walking together toward the Great Hall.

“I enjoy his kindness and candor,” Anne answered. “But I don’t think I’ll be coming to him for any heady discourse. You know, I’m pretty sure he thinks I teach dance—he seemed quite confused when I started talking about movements of art.”

Severus snickered.

They turned the corner into a more crowded hallway. Chewing her lip, Anne worried how she was going to navigate through with her crutch. She needn’t have: the clusters of students dispersed and stepped quickly out of the way when they saw Severus approaching.

“He was also a bit muddled about the Hogwarts crests,” she continued. “He told me Gryffindor chose the gold dragon for their crest because of the ones on the English Quidditch team’s emblem, but he asked if I knew why Slytherin chose to put a worm on theirs.”

Severus shook his head in disgust. “And did you correct him?”

“Actually, I couldn’t help myself,” she said in a low voice, leaning in close to him. “I sent him to ask the Bloody Baron.”

A clear, low roll of laughter escaped Severus, causing the students in the hall to turn their heads. From the jolt of dumbstruck awe that rang out from them, Anne suspected they had never heard him laugh before, nor did they know anyone who could say they had.


	6. Contraband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to sit at his desk, Severus said, “Take out your ingredients and complete steps one through four in your text.” 
> 
> Beneath the rustling of pages and the clanking of beakers and tongs being set up, Anne whispered to the student beside her: “Is he always this scary?”
> 
> “Actually, I think he’s going easy on us because you’re here,” the boy whispered back, grinning. _“Please_ come back next week.”

Anne arrived just before the start of fifth period, among a crowd of students. Her leg fully mended, she crept as silently as she could to the far corner of the classroom and took a seat. She wouldn’t give Severus a single cause for complaint—no one would even notice her from back here.

That hope was quickly dashed as a couple of students from her own seventh-year class spotted her and rushed over.

“Hey, who let you out of the art room?” Tom Quailfeather, a tall Ravenclaw student, teased as he plopped down at the desk beside her. Jennifer Knapp, also Ravenclaw, took the desk in front of him and turned to hear Anne’s response.

“Actually, I’m here to learn with you guys,” Anne whispered to them, bent forward low against her desk. “Professor Snape said I could sit in on this class. I really can’t talk to you guys through it, though—I really don’t want him to change his mind.”

 _“Oh_ yeah,” Jennifer agreed, grimacing. “Do _not_ talk through his class. He gets super mad about that.”

“Yeah, and don’t tap your quill or cough too much,” added Tom. “And make sure you set your cauldron timer to measure in milliseconds, not just seconds—he’s really picky about that.”

“Can’t I just use a time-counting charm?” asked Anne, chewing her lip. “I didn’t bring a cauldron timer.”

“Oh…” Tom exchanged a look with Jennifer. “Yeah… You really should have brought one.”

At that moment, Severus looked up from his desk and all chatter immediately ceased. These were, after all, his seventh-year students: they had been in his class long enough to know what was expected of them and how to avoid his wrath. The few students who hadn’t already opened their textbook to the page number scrawled on the chalkboard did so now—including Anne, who resolved to copy Jennifer and Tom’s every move for the next hour.

Standing and moving to the front of his desk, Severus announced: “Veritaserum.” His eyes flickered over the rows of students. “A powerful and strictly controlled substance used for…? _Quailfeather.”_

“It’s a truth serum,” Tom answered. “Used to interrogate people, although the results are unreliable since the potion’s effectiveness varies from person to person.” Anne was impressed to sense that despite Severus’s imposing presence, Tom was quite comfortable being called on—he was, in fact, glad to be questioned, since he felt confident in his knowledge of the material. 

“Correct,” Severus said, pacing slowly along the front row. “What method might one use to resist the effects of Veritaserum? _Blackfoot.”_

“Taking an antidote,” a girl in the second row responded.

“And another method? _Knapp.”_

“Using occlumency,” Jennifer said.

“Good.” Severus halted to stand in front of his desk. “Today we will brew together the ingredients for Veritaserum. However, the potion must mature to become sufficiently potent. How long does it take to mature? _Everly.”_

In the third row back, a pale boy with glasses gave a startled jump. “Uh… about a month.”

Snape’s head snapped up to face him. _“About—a month.”_

“Or… a bit less.” The boy skimmed frantically through his textbook. “Twenty-eight days.”

 _“Mister_ Everly,” Snape pronounced slowly, scowling his black eyes at the student. “I require more precision from you at this level. Veritaserum takes one lunar cycle to mature. To help you grasp the gravity of the matter, you will deliver a thousand-word essay on the lunar cycle and its relevance to potion-making to me at the end of the current lunar _phase.”_

Anne winced. Griffins, that was in just three days.

Returning to sit at his desk, Severus said: “Weigh out your ingredients and complete steps one through four in your text.” 

Beneath the rustling of pages and the clanking of beakers and tongs being set up, Anne whispered to Tom: “Is he always this scary?”

“Actually, I think he’s going easy on us because you’re here,” Tom whispered back, grinning. _“Please_ come back next week.”

* * *

“No larger than your thumb,” Severus said, holding up a cube of toadroot cut to the ideal size. “And discard any pieces where the veining has blackened.”

He scanned the room, confirming that every quill was scribbling against parchment.

“The rest of the instructions are fairly straightforward.” He rested the root and his knife down on his desk, picking up a handkerchief to wipe his hands. “You should be able to complete them on your own in the remaining class time. However—” He held up a hand in warning. “—when you come to the step that says to shave off slivers of unicorn hoof against the grain, I advise you to ignore that instruction. You will have an easier time and get more potent results if you shave _with_ the grain.”

The students turned back to their cauldrons and Severus roamed the aisles, wordlessly assessing their progress. 

He passed by the back row, where Anne sat frowning down in concentration at her unicorn hoof. The potion simmering beside her looked appropriately clear and effervescent. At her elbow, a stretch of parchment was filled with ink, tiny droplets splattered over endless lines of flowing cursive notes. She had ink staining her hands, and a small smear over one eyebrow where she must have pushed her hair back from her face. There was something oddly endearing about that. It made him want to lean down and wipe her face clean with his thumb.

Her eyes flicked up to him and she smiled, sliding her knife along the side of the hoof _(with_ the grain). He gave a slight nod to acknowledge her.

Then she went and winked at him— _winked_ at him, like they were two kids with a secret—and he whirled away, flattered and completely mortified. Severus marched to the storage cabinet at the side of the room and busied himself clearing a secure space to store the student potions while they matured. He had recently grown suspicious over a missing vial of Polyjuice Potion—he would take no chances with the Veritaserum.

* * *

“Are you coming for the next class too?” Jennifer asked, tucking her textbook under the arm.

“I hope so,” Anne answered truthfully. “I guess I’ll find out in a minute.” She flicked her chin toward Severus, who was still waving his wand over the padlocked cabinet that housed their potions.

“I hope so too.”

“Don’t forget your cauldron timer next time,” Tom said.

The two waved their goodbyes and headed out the door with the last of the other students. Moving up to her usual spot on the front row desk, Anne waited for Severus to finish securing the cabinet.

“So,” he said, returning to his desk, “how did you enjoy class with my most tolerable group of students?”

“You were really great. I can’t believe how many notes I took.” She felt her face heating as she glanced down at her ink-blackened hands—is that what he’d been looking at when he stopped by her desk? At all her notes? He’d been looking at _something,_ something that stirred him. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your students are angels.”

“I assure you, they're not.”

“Man, though,” Anne laughed, “you are a _scary_ teacher! If I’d had you back in school, I would have been terrified.”

“And now?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Pfft—” She waved her hand. “I could take you down.”

Severus gave an amused sniff and a patronizing nod.

“Well,” she said, reaching into her bag. “I don’t suppose you have time for another guessing game?” She pulled out a tiny vial of yellow powder.

“Another wager?”

“No, I’m done with wagers.” She reached forward to hand him the vial. “This is just for fun, because I like watching you figure it out. Also, I don’t know what else to do with it— _this_ one’s not in any of your textbooks.”

“Intriguing.” Severus knitted his brows and squinted at the powder. “Rules?”

“The usual: just senses, spells and bird calls.”

As he set to work with his wand, Anne realized that she was beginning to recognize the general order of his methods. He tended to rule out certain possibilities before others, working along a set path. She made a mental note to ask him about this some time, when he wasn’t so occupied.

This item took him considerably longer than the others. It was almost twenty minutes before he finally placed the vial down on the table in front of him and sat up in his chair, his hands folded in front of him. 

Rather than his usual air of satisfaction, she sensed deep disapproval.

* * *

“Anne,” Severus said in a low voice, “where did you get this?”

The ink staining her hands and face had suddenly lost its charm. It reminded him rather of ashes dusted across a child caught playing with matches.

“Where did I get _what?”_ she asked, grinning like this was still a game.

“Cockatrice’s eye. Dried and powdered cockatrice’s eye.” He watched her face carefully, his tone cold and measured. “Do you know how many illegal potion recipes call for cockatrice’s eye?”

“And plenty of legal ones too,” she countered, shrugging. “I know it’s used in Vesper Elixir and Athenius Potion.”

“And it’s available only in limited quantities through licensed suppliers to accredited potion-masters.” He held up the vial to her. _“As_ an accredited potion-master, I demand to know where this came from.”

“So strict!” she said, tilting her head. “I love it.”

He glared at her. She was trying to be cute, to deflect, but this was a deadly serious matter. Where had she possibly come across such a volatile substance? Surely the Ministry would have stopped her from entering the country with it, which meant she likely picked it up from someone at Hogwarts—a truly alarming thought. “I’m not playing around, Anne. This is potentially a very dangerous item.”

“Which is why, Professor,” she said in an exaggerated pompous tone, straightening her spine and crossing her arms, “I am entrusting it into your most fastidious of hands.”

Severus pushed back from the desk to a stand, the first flames of his temper licking up through his chest. Was that supposed to be an impression of him? Pretentious, stick-in-the-mud Snape, getting his knickers in a twist over a paltry little powder that could get someone killed? Nine hells, he didn’t need this rubbish. He’d suffered plenty of mocking from cavalier blowhards in his youth—he had no intention of tolerating it as a grown man.

He picked up the vial so she couldn’t take it with her. Then he pointed to the door. “Tell me where this came from and get out.”

* * *

Severus glared at her, his face held hard as stone. A quick flash from a crack in the shield of his mind, however, told Anne the truth: she’d actually really hurt him.

She stammered, trying to find the right words to undo her mistake. Oh griffins, was this what non-empaths had to deal with? She’d never realized how much she relied on her ability until she met someone who could block her out of his head. Here she’d been joking around, just trying to make light of the situation to avoid having to tell him where she’d gotten the power. She’d thought she was being _flirty,_ for Merlin’s sake!

“I’m sorry, Severus. I didn’t mean to—” 

“Tell me where it came from.”

“I can’t.”

He stared at her, unmoved.

Anne hesitated for a moment, trying to choose her words carefully. “Look... I can’t tell you who gave this to me without betraying their trust, but…” She sighed. “Let’s just say, if you were to go wandering in a certain part of the Forbidden Forest lately, you might come across an eyeless—and therefore mostly harmless—cockatrice.” 

Severus’s eyebrows raised.

“Not that the person who gave it to me—he didn’t— _they_ didn’t—gouge its eyes. That was an accident.”

“Hagrid.”

She put a hand to her face. “Oh, please don’t get him in trouble. He wanted to make sure the eyes went somewhere safe, but he didn’t dare bring it to you himself.”

He shook his head, his eyes on the ceiling. Finally, sitting back down, he said: “It isn’t the first horror that irresponsible ox has hidden on school property. I suppose it won’t be the last, either.”

Anne exhaled in relief. She would have felt absolutely terrible if she’d gone and gotten Hagrid fired with her big, blabbering mouth. “Thank you for understanding. And I’m sorry for giving you a hard time. You’re right, it’s a dangerous substance. To be honest, I’m glad not to be carrying that vial around any longer.”

“Well, if you have any other contraband you need to dispose of, you know where to find me.” With that, he pulled open one of the thick books at the side of the desk and began reading.

She slid off the front desk, then stood there a moment, rocking slightly on her heels as she strained for any flicker of feeling from him. Had she soothed over the wound she’d opened in him? Had he forgiven her?

“Severus…” She stepped forward to the edge of his desk, and he looked up. “I want you to know that I really do respect you, and admire you. You’re a brilliant wizard, stimulating company, and I _like_ that you take these kinds of things so seriously.”

He nodded dismissively, but a wave of gratification swelled up and out from him, compelling her on.

“I shouldn’t tease you,” she said, leaning forward on his desk. Her long hair spilled down over her shoulders. “But I can’t always control myself. I guess I don’t have your discipline.”

His senses came to full alert then, the mind behind his guarded face racing to interpret her tone and intention. She would have stopped then, had she not spotted a clear stripe of attraction rippling across his apprehension.

“And I really do like it when you’re strict, Professor.” She flashed a crooked smile. “It’s a bit of a thrill, actually.”

“Is it?” he said in a very soft, faraway voice. His black eyes searched her face.

Anne stood back from the desk. “Well,” she said, pulling her hair back behind her. “Thanks again for class. I’d like to come again next week, if that’s okay with you?”

He shrugged. “As you like.”

“I look forward to it.” Smiling, she picked up her bag with her cauldron and supplies. “Good evening, Professor.”

As she walked out, she felt his concentration heighten in the way it did when he was guessing ingredients. His usual self-assurance that he could solve the puzzle, however, was distinctly absent.


	7. A Striped and Golden Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s for Professor Swanson. For her birthday.”
> 
> Severus frowned. “Surely a painting would be a more suitable gift for an art teacher.”
> 
> “No sir, she loves sensovials. Everyone knows she collects them.”

“Professor Snape, do you know how to make a sensovial?”

The question came from Rovella Rosier, a sixth-year student, at the end of third period. As the other students cleared out of the room for lunch, she and her friend Agatha Greengrass hung back. If Rovella hadn’t been one of his best students, plus in Slytherin, Severus doubted she would have dared ask him this particular question.

Sitting behind his desk, he raised an eyebrow at her. “Do I strike you as the sensovial-making type?”

“Well, no, Professor…” She blushed a deep scarlet. “It’s just… It’s such complicated magic…”

Severus was content to let the statement hang in the air until it dissipated. However, the more boisterous Agatha chimed in: “It’s for Professor Swanson. For her birthday.”

He frowned. “Surely a painting would be a more suitable gift for an art teacher.”

“No sir, she loves sensovials,” Rovella insisted. “Everyone knows she collects them.”

Agatha stifled a giggle. “Professor Haberdash sent her one. It’s… well, it’s just awful. Clumsy and spotted and vomit green—”

“She loved it, though,” Rovella interrupted, frowning at her friend. “She actually did, you could tell. She smiled and thanked him and put it right up at the front of her desk beside the others.”

Severus sniffed in disbelief. Haberdash couldn’t turn ice into ice water. There’s no way Anne could seriously have enjoyed that buffoon’s pathetic gift.

He gave a defeated sigh and a roll of his eyes. “Not that I have _ever_ made a sensovial in my life, you understand...” He glared threats down at them. “But show me what you’ve got so far.”

Rovella’s eyes widened in surprise as Agatha dove into her knapsack. She rifled through for a moment, then pulled out a small, clear orb the size of an apple. As she held it up to Severus, he saw something floating within—a strange brown creature with two tails, four fins and no head. It thrashed violently.

“Merlin's beard, how did you manage that?” he asked them, squinting at the creature. “How did you say the incantation?”

After glancing at Agatha, Rovella answered: “We said—”

“OVIAL SENSORATUM!” The two girls said the incantation in unison.

Severus closed his eyes and raised his hands to massage his temples. “You did it _together.”_ He took a deep inhale and exhaled slowly through his mouth. Then he stood up from his desk, walked around to the front of the desk and took the orb from Agatha.

“A sensovial is not a collaborative project,” he told them, leaning back against his desk. “You are creating the illusion of a fish, which is to be a visual representation of your sentiments toward a person— _one_ person’s genuine feelings toward _one_ other person. You must focus your mind clearly on the other person in ways that are moving to you. Happy memories of them, for example. If you allow your emotions to become muddled, however—or if you attempt to mix the emotions of two people into one sensovial—the finished product may be… _unsatisfactory.”_ He held up the orb to grimace at the two-tailed abomination once more.

“The spell is deceptively simple,” he continued, handing the failed sensovial back to Agatha. “It’s the concentration and emotional distillation that’s difficult. I advise you to spend some time reflecting on what Professor Swanson’s class and presence here at Hogwarts means to you. Concentrate deeply on the emotions that arise, and then try again— _separately.”_

“Thank you, professor!” they said, packing up their bags and hurrying toward the door.

“One more thing,” Snape called to them. They came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. “You will tell _no one_ that I’ve advised you on this matter. I won’t have every starry-eyed sap with a crush banging on my door come Christmas.” He sneered. “Or, good horror, _Valentine’s Day.”_

“Yes, professor,” Rovella promised. The two students left, closing the door behind them.

Severus returned to grading papers. Or, at least, he tried to return to grading papers.

It had been a lie, saying he had never made a sensovial. He had made one once, when he was a student at Hogwarts. He thought back to that fish: a deep, midnight blue with silvery scales. It had been for Lily Evans, of course, for her birthday the year after she’d stopped speaking to him. 

At the time, he had tried to focus on his happiest memories of her, tried to create a joyous fish that would convey his affection for her. Try as he might, however, his worst memory kept creeping in, as it frequently crept into his thoughts in the early morning hours when he couldn’t sleep. It replayed over and over in his head, especially the moment he uttered the one word that slid across the rope of their friendship like a knife, severing it: _Mudblood._ Through countless attempts, the fish in his orb remained a somber blue, turning slowly in the orb with an occasional lethargic fin stroke.

He had snuck the sensovial into Lily’s bag as she passed him in the hallway. He didn’t include a card or any identifying note, and he never heard how she reacted to it or who she suspected it might be from. She was dating James Potter by that time.

Hunched over his desk, Severus’s eyes ran over the same sloppily-scrawled paragraph for the fifth time, taking it in no more than the first. What a waste, that gift. What a fool.

Still, his fish had been beautiful. Sad, yes, but beautiful. 

_It’s a wonder Haberdash’s fish doesn’t drown itself,_ he thought. _Anne is certainly kind, but she must still have taste—she’s an art teacher, for Godric’s sake._

Anne had attended his class for the past two weeks. Although she tended to distract him with her baffling smiles and winking, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed her attention. The praise she always stayed to give him at the end of class was nice as well; now that she’d quit her gambling games with him, he could find little reason to doubt her sincerity. Even the occasional piece of constructive feedback on his teaching was sweet enough to swallow when it came in her gentle voice.

A temptation welled up within him and he pushed it immediately back down. No, he was not going to make a sensovial for Anne. It would be ridiculous, no matter how skillfully made the finished product. Imagine the gossip if someone discovered he had made one for her.

But why would anyone ever need to know? Really, objectively speaking, he was a masterful wizard. Hadn’t he been devising his own spells and potions since he was a student? Hadn’t he guarded his thoughts against the Dark Lord, risking his life on a daily basis? Certainly, sneaking a small object into a classroom without being noticed would be nothing—

“No!” Severus hissed under his breath. Why was he even considering this?

If it were anyone but Anne, he wouldn’t give it another thought. It was just like her to enjoy such sentimental trinkets. It’s just the kind of thing someone who went out of her way to try to learn all the students’ names would want. The kind of thing someone who joked to put her class at ease and who had patience for fools and who found other people’s interests contagious would want.

He was doing it, he realized. But he didn’t stop himself.

Anne sitting at the back desk, not just listening but staining her hands in the effort to catch his every word. Anne bringing him rare ingredients, such amusing little puzzles, and being delighted when he correctly identified them. Anne affectionately teasing him with that coy, enigmatic smile that drove him crazy. Anne calling him “professor,” tilting her head playfully so her chestnut hair fell over one eye. Anne perched on the edge of his desk, one perfect leg crossed over the other, blocking his view with the silhouette of her body.

His concentration peaked, his emotions heaving in his chest. Did he want to go through with this? His hand gripped his wand so tightly it was painful.

Anne leaning in against him, murmuring a joke, her eyes flicking up to meet his and her face so close to his for that moment…

“Ovial sensoratum.”

Through a gentle mist of swirling smoke, a clear orb appeared.

Within it was the most exquisite fish Severus had ever seen. The body was a warm, shimmering gold with a bold teal stripe down the side. The stripe curved up and out, fanning into gossamer teal fins and a tail. The fish flipped and turned in smooth, unhurried circles, its tail trailing in ripples behind it.

His mouth spread in a rare, small smile as he picked up the sensovial, admiring it. It was a beautiful gift, fit to give to a beautiful woman. _I hope she sets it right beside Haberdash’s._

He glanced at the clock on the wall: still a quarter of an hour until lunch ended and fourth period began. Plenty of time, using a few spells of his own devising—ones of which he suspected even Albus was unaware.

In a few long strides, he crossed the classroom and crouched at the door. After ensuring it was locked, he waved his wand and whispered an incantation into the keyhole.

The hole widened slightly and he put his eye to it for a quick glance. As intended, he was looking into Anne’s classroom. He scanned the room, wanting to discern quickly whether or not it was empty—if Anne was there, he wouldn’t violate her privacy by spying on her. Fortunately, the room was dark and still. Anne was likely down in the Great Hall having lunch.

With a second spell, Severus made himself nearly transparent—close enough to invisible not to be recognized, in any case. With a third spell, he slipped through the keyhole in his own classroom and came out the one in Anne’s, his gift in hand. He breathed a sigh of relief, noting that Anne preferred surrealist and abstract pieces for her classroom; it avoided the complication of watchful portrait eyes.

He crossed the room to her desk, the front of which was lined with crystal sensovials. Sure enough, in the center of the line was a hideous bloated fish, green and speckled like a bullfrog. It floated on its side, one shabby fin larger and heavier than the other. Flapping its smaller fin, it spun sideways in a circle. Severus shook his head in self-affirming disgust.

Before adding his own globe to the collection, he raised it to his head to admire it once more. Then, before even realizing what he was about to do, he pressed it to his mouth for one small kiss—and pulled it back quickly, shocked at his own unexpected sentimental gesture. _I suppose that’s what comes of making sappy trinkets._

He placed the orb in the center of the desk, behind the line of others, where she would be certain to notice it. Then he rushed back to the door and whispered his way through the keyhole, just as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall.

* * *

“To further expand your acceptance of the extraordinary,” Luna Lovegood said, presenting a pair of earrings that resembled root vegetables. Watching at her side, Hermione Granger gave a polite smile and silently radiated disgust.

“What a unique gift,” Anne exclaimed. “They’re adorable.” She finished unlocking the door to her classroom, then reached for the radish-like earrings and slipped them through her earlobes. Luna smile and stepped into the room to set up her easel.

“I have something for you as well,” Hermione said, holding her hands in front of her, one cupped over the other. “Happy birthday.” She lifted her top hand to reveal a delicate lilac-coloured fish with indigo-veined fins floating inside a globe.

Anne accepted the gift, a pleasant warmth coursing into her body the moment she touched it. Holding the orb, she felt Hermione’s essence and all the emotions she had infused: admiration, respect, a desire to emulate as a younger child strives to emulate a cherished older sibling or cousin. This rush of feeling was the true reason Anne, like all empaths, loved sensovials. 

“It’s wonderful,” she gasped, struggling to keep tears from welling up. “What beautiful artistry—and from a fourth-year student! It’s so very thoughtful of you, Hermione, especially since I don’t even have you as my student.”

“Really, I wanted to make one for you. It’s actually partially a thank-you gift for those recommended readings you gave us in Potions class. They’ve been immensely helpful.”

“Professor Swanson!” Luna cried from inside the classroom. “Who gave you this golden one? It’s marvellous!”

Frowning in confusion, Anne approached the desk with Hermione following close behind. Anne had received nearly a dozen sensovials today, but certainly none that were gold, unless you counted Brock Haberdash’s yellowy-green guppy. His sensovial, she suspected, had been motivated in some part by the feelings that tended to create golden fish—infatuation, romantic interest—but his execution was lacking.

But there it was, on her desk: a shimmering gold fish with teal fins billowing behind it like streamers. The bold stripe on its side caught her eye and she stifled a gasp.

“This one isn’t from a student,” Luna said.

“It doesn’t say who it’s from,” Hermione noted, scanning the desk. She and Luna stared up at Anne in thrilled anticipation. “Any idea?”

Anne struggled to keep her expression from revealing too much. “Oh, well… I bet it’s from my Mom. Probably sent it late by owl and forgot to send a card. She always forgets little things like that.”

Luna nodded with disappointment, but Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion. 

_Why oh why does the brightest student in the school happen to be in my classroom right now?_ Anne thought. _She doesn’t even take my class!_

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, and closed it again. Thank goodness she didn’t say anything in front of Luna, but her emotions rang out clearly: she knew too much about sensovials to buy Anne’s lie. Gold meant love or romantic feelings and, worse, stripes were the hallmark of sexual desire. Nobody’s mother sent them fish like that. Anne regretted the careless haste of her lie.

Fortunately, at that moment, a crowd of students came through the door.

“You’d better get to your own class,” Anne said to Hermoine, blushing as she felt the girl’s eyes scan her face. 

Anne stood in front of her desk, leaning back with her arms out to casually obstruct the view of the sensovial. She didn’t want to answer more questions about it or even think about it until class was over. Certainly, she didn’t dare touch the thing while there were students present—who knows how powerful a response she would feel from it?

She’d intended to offer the period as a free work period for the students’ projects, but decided she didn’t trust herself with that kind of idleness. 

“Today we’ll be learning about and discussing the work of Greta Raveneye, the witch who brought the Enchantism movement to popularity in the mid 1920s. Please take out your textbook and turn to chapter seven.”

* * *

The afternoon crawled by, and Anne couldn’t put the mysterious sensovial out of her mind for a single second of it. Who could it be from? Surely it must be from someone outside the school—although how would they sneak it into her locked office? Maybe one of the house-elves had delivered it? 

Albus would certainly have the talent to create such a fish, but she had never felt anything more than friendliness from him. There were several students and a handful of teachers she had felt attraction from, but none who she believed had the skill—or the nerve—to create something like this.

Except for one person. There was one person she could think of capable of both creating and delivering the gift, someone she’d been flirting shamelessly with for weeks… But though she felt occasional flickers of interest from him, he seemed perfectly content to keep his distance. And besides, was Severus really the type to send a sensovial?

Now, as the last student of the day wandered out of her classroom, it was finally time to find out. Anne locked the door and went to sit at her desk, heart pounding.

Swallowing hard, she pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her hands and used them to carefully slide the globe in front of her on the desk. She leaned forward to study it, awestruck. She had received many sensovials over the years—friendly and romantic, amateur and expert—but she had never seen any as magnificent as this one.

Taking a deep breath, Anne picked up the globe with her bare hands.

The sensations came so hard and fast she almost dropped it. First, warmth and light—like a roaring fire struck up by shivering fingers in a room that's been cold and damp all winter. Like a sun ray bursting through clouds. Wanting and hunger, a starvation so deep your stomach ties itself in a knot too painful to ever fully unravel. Joy, a laugh that catches you off guard when all is lost and it doesn’t make sense but it’s just so funny and it’s such a relief to laugh when you thought you might never again. Desire, a deep and ancient aching, a lust to see and touch and taste and know and have and _possess,_ yes, even possess.

The feelings heightened to a fury, then dropped off suddenly and released her. She gulped in air, trying to catch her breath.

Now that she’d felt the infused emotions once in their fullness, she would be able to handle the orb with control, moderating the intensity and filtering through the different feelings as she liked. She held the sensovial in her hands for a few minutes, playing back certain sensations: affection, joy, desire. 

And she felt smaller details she’d missed before. She pressed her fingertips into the crystal, frowning in concentration. He’d kissed it before he put it down. It had surprised him, to do that.

She’d recognized who it was from the moment she touched it, as she always did. It was Severus, the essence of him was weaved throughout it like the threads of a tapestry. And yet it was so much more of him than she’d ever felt, ever suspected. How had he been able to conceal this from her?

Well, he’s shown her the truth now, at least. She grinned at the clear ball in her hand.

Anne stowed the gift safely in her purse, then went for the door. After locking it, she set off down the hallway like an arrow speeding toward its mark.


	8. The Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I came to thank you for your gift,” Anne said quietly, looking up into his eyes with a knowing smile.
> 
> It was only from years of practice guarding his emotions and lying to save his own skin that Severus was able to hold his impassive face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, stepping slowly back to a comfortable distance. “What makes you—”
> 
> “May I come in?” she interrupted.

Severus was halfway through an article _(A Comparison Study on the Fatality Risk of Hydra Blood Versus Hydra Venom)_ when a knock sounded on the door of his quarters—a student, no doubt, come to trouble him with some trivial matter. He unbolted his locks, putting in the extra muscle to ensure the clanging of metal was amplified to reflect his temper. When the last latch was slung, he threw open the door and leaned out imposingly.

He nearly choked on his own breath. It was Anne standing there, beaming the same blinding smile she gave him in reward for his deeds or deftness. The first thought that scrambled across his mind was: _she knows about the sensovial._

Tugging on the reigns of his facial muscles, he held himself composed. There was no way she could possibly know. He was being paranoid.

“Good evening, Anne,” he said in his measured, monotone voice. He raised his eyebrow slightly—signalling his confusion, not betraying it. “Is everything all right?”

There were three small steps leading up to his door. Anne climbed up onto the second, less than a foot away from him. She had obviously come straight from her classroom: her hair was falling out of its careless bun and there were streaks of paint on her hands, flecks of blue on her chin. She was also, for some reason, wearing very strange earrings.

“I came to thank you for your gift,” she said quietly, looking up into his eyes with a knowing smile.

It was only from years of practice guarding his emotions and lying to save his own skin that Severus was able to hold his impassive face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, stepping slowly back to a comfortable distance. “What makes you—”

“May I come in?” she interrupted him, stepping up onto the third step.

He hesitated a moment, then held the door open to her. “Well… yes, of course. But I’m afraid I can’t take credit for whatever—”

“It’s beautiful!” she burst out, marching into the room. “It’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen, let alone received.” She stepped closer to him, closing the distance again, and looked him dead in the eye. “I know it was you.”

His pulse began to race. It had been over a decade since he’d had to focus this hard to hold his own expression in check.

“I’m afraid this is rather awkward,” Severus said, meeting her gaze without blinking. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I did hear that it’s your birthday, and I wish you a good one, but sadly I didn’t think to get you anything. Whatever this gift is, it wasn’t from me.” He tilted his head in a show of sympathy.

Anne stared at him a long moment, searching his face, and then backed away with a bitter laugh. It seemed she finally believed him, thank Godric, but what on earth had led her to suspect him in the first place?

“How do you do that?” she asked him, her face crumbling into a look of pain. “You put that mental wall up and it’s like I’m the only person in the room. How do you block me out like that?”

He was on guard in a second, reeling through possible scenarios. 

“Block you out?” He grabbed his wand off the armchair beside him; he had protected himself before by reacting quickly to an unexpected admission like this. “Block you out from _what?_ What would you be hunting around my head for?”

Was she a spy? Another Legilimens? A Death Eater? He’d been so taken with her smile, her aptitude, her attention—it never occurred to him that she might be using him for more than a harmless teaching initiative. Now that the idea struck him, it seemed far more plausible than randomly encountering a beautiful, interesting woman who admired his work enough to befriend him. How could he have been so gullible?

He drew his wand at her, glaring. “Show me your forearms.”

* * *

Anne flinched backwards, banging her elbows against a low bookcase crammed with dusty hardcovers. Merlin’s beard, he had his wand aimed at her—and the bolt of hostility that flashed from his mind warned he might actually be willing to use it.

“Severus, what the—I never meant to—”

“Your forearms,” he repeated coldly, his wand raising higher.

She considered grabbing for her own wand from the pocket of her long sweater. Then a list of the spells she knew he’d invented scrolled through her mind—spells that could turn a person inside-out, one of them literally—and she reached for her sleeves instead. She showed him her arms, the small tattoo of two crossed keys she had on her left wrist.

Severus gave a small sigh of relief (what on earth had he been looking for?). He lowered his wand slightly, but kept it pointed toward her. “Explain yourself, then. What exactly are you looking for in my head?”

“Please, it’s not like that. I never meant any harm.” A tear rolled down one of her cheeks as she mourned her slipped secret. Would it make things weird between them, when he learned about her ability? That happened, sometimes. “It’s… I keep it a secret. I don’t like to tell people...”

“Explain.” He held tight to his wand, giving no sign of softening.

“It’s just that…” She wiped the tear from her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “I’m an empath. Albus is the only other person who knows.”

She searched his face, waiting for a reaction. If only she could sense him! 

He remained stiff and cold for a moment. Then understanding slowly crept into his face and he lowered his wand. His eyes stared off blankly into space and he put two fingers to his mouth.

“I pick up feelings from people,” Anne went on. “I can usually sense whatever they’re feeling at the moment, at least a little bit. I don’t even mean to do it, it just happens. But with you…” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I can feel you sometimes, but then there are times when you close up and it’s like you’re not even there. Why does it feel like you’re not there?”

He looked up at her in a sudden motion, as if just noticing she was standing there. “Occlumency,” he said in a faraway voice. He turned and walked back to his armchair, leaned against it as if for support. “It’s the practice of guarding one's mind from intruders who would read your thoughts. Not a common practice, but an old habit of mine. Didn’t know it worked against empaths. I’ve never met one before.” He scratched at the tweed of the armchair, his eyes still blank.

“There aren’t many of us,” she said. “If you know what to look for, though, you can usually spot us. Like the sensovials.”

He looked up at her then and she felt the briefest, faintest flash of terror from him.

“Empaths like to collect sensovials,” she went on. “You can see the collection on display in my classroom, that’s how everyone knew I like them. It doesn’t even matter that much when they’re ugly or badly made. Like Brock’s fish—did you see it in my room? Poor thing can barely swim, but the feeling is still there, even if it’s muddy. Pomona’s has such a camaraderie to it, it made me feel exactly the way I do when we get joking and we just laugh until our sides hurt. And Hermione Granger, when I picked hers up I felt such a rush of welcome and kinship.”

As she spoke, Severus’s shoulders sank deeper and deeper until he was hunched over the back of the armchair, his limp hair hanging in his face.

“But the one from you…”

He groaned and she felt a sudden rush from him: shame, first and foremost, shame so deep it was nauseating. Anxiety, confusion over what to do next. Anger, not at her but at himself. A kind of self-flagellation, like he was beating himself up. He felt he had been… _irresponsible?_ And then as quickly as he opened to her, he closed again.

“No, wait,” she said, running to him and putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. It felt wonderful, Severus. It’s the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received and I’m so happy.” She tugged at his arm, but he kept his face buried in his other hand.

“You don’t understand,” he said, backing away from her again. “This has been a huge misunderstanding. I never intended to make this a declaration, never intended for you to ever know that thing was from me. This was a mistake, a terribly foolish mistake.” 

“But… _Why?”_ She continued toward him and he stepped back again.

* * *

An empath. He’d gone and accidentally announced his infatuation with an _empath_ , a breed rarer than either Metamorphmagi or Parseltongues. It was a catastrophic bit of bad luck (though thoroughly in keeping with Severus’s lifelong misfortune with women).

Anne looked up at him with sad, shining eyes, like he was twisting a knife into her. Was it possible she’d actually come to care for him in return? He pushed the thought away quickly—it didn’t matter. It couldn’t be, regardless of what she offered of herself to him and how badly he might want to accept it. He’d already stumbled miles too far down this forbidden path with his disastrously imprudent gift-giving.

“I’m sorry,” Severus said, putting up a hand to keep her standing back from him. “You need to go.”

Anne shook her head at him. _“You_ don’t understand.” Her mouth straightened suddenly and her eyes stared back at him in defiance. “Open to me and I’ll show you.”

“Open to you?”

“Open your mind.”

He gaped at her. “Absolutely not.”

“Open to me,” she insisted, pushing her weight into the hand he held out against her. “Then I can open to you and you’ll feel what I feel and we’ll be on equal footing. I can do that. I can project my own emotions, when I want to.”

A powerful temptation welled in him. She was offering up her own intimate truth to him—her own genuine feelings toward him, laid open in an unfalsifiable medium he could experience for himself. He’d broken into people’s minds and stolen things in the past, but never before had someone held open their front door and welcomed him in. He desperately wanted to enter, to see what was inside.

He stomped the urge down. _It doesn’t matter_. _It doesn’t matter what she feels for you, because you can’t have her. You don’t need to know. It would be complete folly to expose the vault of your mind to her for a tantalizing bit of information that does you no good whatsoever._

Severus shook his head. “It isn’t safe…”

“It’s perfectly safe. I can’t read thoughts and I can only feel things as you feel them. You’ll feel what I feel when I project to you, but you can close me back out whenever you want.”

He hesitated—Could she truly return his affection? _It didn’t matter, for Merlin’s sake!—_ then shook his head slowly again.

“Please, Severus,” Anne begged. She sighed and spoke in a low voice. “This isn’t something I do with many people. Only a handful of people in the world get to experience this in a lifetime. Don’t you want to feel what that’s like, with me?”

Dear Godric, he did.

Like a shutter blown open by the final gale of a hurricane, he opened. And found her waiting there for him.

At first, it felt like curtains unleashing daylight into a dark room, so blinding it was almost painful. No, it wasn’t light, but _joy._ Joy, that dancing wonder that shimmers across your whole body when, turning, you witness the grace of the universe just as it reaches to touch you. Warmth and connection, like being welcomed under a blanket that already has the heat of loved ones in it. A bounty of affection and admiration pouring into the dusty vessels of his heart, filling them until they spilled over. Tenderness. Desire. All for him.

Her emotions drilled into him, so intense they were dizzying, and yet he found himself opening to them further. Welcoming them.

Anne smiled, taking the hand he held out against her in her own. “Thank you,” she told him, moving in closer again. This time he allowed her. “I wanted you to know.”

“It’s…” Severus steadied himself against the wall. “Is it always so much?”

She laughed. “Sorry, I must be overwhelming you. I’m just really happy.” 

Her feelings dimmed slightly, as though she’d turned down the oil of a lamp. Merlin’s beard, she had _that_ level of control over it?

“That’s better,” he said, catching his breath. “How do you think straight like this? It’s fascinating, but it’s… a lot to process.” He stood up straighter, trying to regain his composure.

“Just fascinating?” Anne grinned at him. “It gets better. Wait until you feel the ricochet.” She stepped in closer, pressing her body against his. 

* * *

Anne wasn’t certain, but she thought it started in her first. Her reaction to being so close to him, to the heat and the smell of him. It started in her like a fire.

It had started in Severus too, but when her feelings reached him she felt his own fire blaze up so suddenly it made him gasp. She put a hand to his chest, stoking the flames further, tossing another dry handful onto the pyre to feel the sparks searing back into her.

He tensed beneath her touch, but she could feel him wanting it more every millisecond, just as she wanted him. She raised her head to run the bridge of her nose along his jawline, his enjoyment steaming in her head. Their desire ricocheted back into one another, urging them both on and on. Finally he bent his neck, lowering his mouth down to hers. 

Their lips brushed for a second—before he jolted like a livewire. Terror, duty, self-reproach: the feelings shocked across Anne’s senses.

And then nothing. He had closed himself off again.

 _“Why?”_ Anne moaned as his hands curled around her shoulders, forcing her back to arm’s length.

“I shouldn’t have let you do that,” Severus panted. “You have no idea how dangerous it is, for both of us. I’m sorry, but you need to leave.”

“What? No, wait—” He had her by the arm now, marching her toward the door. She struggled to find solid footing to plant herself, but now the door was opening and she was being shoved through it. She tripped down the steps, catching her balance on the landing. “Severus!”

“I’m truly sorry,” he told her, his face a misery. “But this can’t happen. Go home, Anne. And please, for your own safety if nothing else, tell no one I gave you that thing!” The door slammed shut, the locks clanging.

She stood there for a second, gaping at the door. She was so confused she couldn’t even move. What had just happened? _Why_ had it just happened? What did he mean “for your own safety”?

She could feel Severus faintly, now that he thought he was alone—he must be leaning against the door, unshielded. He was in such a spiral of remorse and self-hatred it made her heart hurt. Concentrating, she sent him out targeted feelings: warmth, acceptance, affection. 

There was a thud from behind the door as he jumped back, a shot of terror ringing out from his mind before it snapped shut.

With a long sigh that melted into a sob, Anne turned and shuffled back to her apartment.


	9. Grief and Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Professor Swanson,” Parvati called, “are you all right?”
> 
> “Oh… yes Parvati, thank you for asking.” Anne gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m just… I’m a bit out of sorts today. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
> 
> “Are you upset about the sensovial?” Lavender piped. “The gold one? Didn’t you ever figure out who it was from?”
> 
> “Oh, that…” Anne glanced back at the orb on her desk, her face falling.

Severus tossed and turned in his bed, torturing himself with what a fool he’d been and replaying the evening in agonizing detail—but stopping strictly before he allowed himself to relive the sensations they had shared. He couldn’t allow himself to think about her like that, couldn’t lie to himself that he could responsibility pursue her in any way.

It would be different if he hadn’t joined the Order of the Phoenix, if he hadn’t sworn to stand between the Dark Lord Voldermort and Lily's son.

In the weeks before Lily’s death, he had put himself in mortal danger so many times and in so many ways. He had spied on Voldermort, lied to his face, fed him carefully curated bits of information and prayed desperately that his own powers of Occlumency didn’t falter at the wrong moment. He had walked the razor’s edge, knowing that one small slip would be his ruin.

And yet, in the end, it had made no difference to Lily, who had died all the same. In one act of his own doing, he had set forward the motions of the machine that would ultimately kill her, and he could do nothing to stop it.

Could he do it again? Could he mark another woman for death, this time just by admitting he cared for her?

It was only a matter of time before Voldermort returned—the signs were there, were growing with each passing season. How long before he, Severus, would play the part of the Death Eater again, at Albus’s bidding? And if his mask slipped _this_ time? It hadn’t seemed such a gamble when he was only betting his own pitiful life, but as soon as he revealed affection for anyone—even a friend—he put them in danger too. Was that not the very reason Albus had instructed him to keep his distance from Harry Potter (not that Severus needed motivation to avoid the arrogant brat)?

And even if he played his part well, what would Anne think when he appeared to change sides? _Surprise, Anne: This whole time, you’ve been flirting with a Death Eater! Want to watch me_ discipline _these muggles with a little Cruciatus Curse? I wonder what delightful feelings you'll pick up from_ that. _You like guessing games, my sweet, tender-hearted Anne? Let’s guess whether, after watching me do the Dark Lord’s dirty work, you can ever forgive me._

Severus turned again and again, struggling to control his mind as he was usually able to do with ease. He _needed_ to be able to control himself—lives depended on his ability to control himself.

All his years of study in Occlumency, all his years of practice shutting powerful wizards out of his mind—turns out, all it took was one pretty empath to show him a bit of attention and he’d crumble like wet sand. _And she’s an art teacher, for Merlin’s sake! If she knew a single scrap of Legilimency she could have you gushing out secrets like a geyser!_

It was no use. There was no getting around it. He would have to stay away from her, for both their sakes. Any other option would be dangerously irresponsible.

 _And you,_ he scolded himself, _with your ridiculous sloppy gift-giving, have been irresponsible enough already._

* * *

“And thus, the Post-Transfiguration movement was born. It was the first era of magical art to celebrate non-human artists, including Greta Raveneye…” Swanson glanced down at the textbook in her hands. “No. No, not Greta… She wasn’t… What are we…?” She raised the book to her head, squinting.

Parvati Patil exchanged a worried glance with Lavender Brown, who sat at the back desk beside her. This was the fifth time this period their teacher had totally lost her place in the middle of a sentence. Something was _definitely_ up with her today.

“Professor Swanson,” Parvati called, “are you all right?”

The woman’s head jerked up to look at her, startled. One side of her hair bent out at a weird angle where she’d obviously missed it with her brush and she appeared to be wearing her shirt inside-out.

“Oh… yes Parvati, thank you for asking.” She gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m just… I’m a bit out of sorts today. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Are you upset about the sensovial?” Lavender piped. “The gold one? Didn’t you ever figure out who it was from?”

“Oh, that…” Swanson glanced back at the orb on her desk, her face falling.

Parvati shot Lavender an exasperated look. Toadstools, hadn’t she done enough already? Sure, it wasn’t Lavender's fault for overhearing Hermione telling Ginny the whole story—the anonymous sensovial, how Swanson had lied and said it was from her mom when the colours meant someone totally had a huge crush on her—and _of course_ she couldn’t be blamed for telling Parvati, her best friend in the whole world. But then she went and told Fay who told Dean who told Ron… By now, the whole school was talking about it! And Swanson was _obviously_ a total mess over the gift already.

“Actually, it’s a gift from…” Swanson hesitated, chewing her lip. “From an old flame back home. He had his house elf deliver it here between classes as a surprise. He means well, but… Well, it’s over between us.”

The class erupted in murmurs of speculation.

“Enough chatter,” Swanson said, turning back to her book. “As I was saying, the Post-Transfiguration movement was the first era of magical art to celebrate non-human artists…”

“That’s _so romantic,”_ Lavender whispered as the lecture continued. “An estranged lover, still pining for her with an ocean between them…” She heaved a dramatic sigh, which cut abruptly in the middle, her nose wrinkling. “You don’t think it’s the _Hygenia Potion guy?”_

Parvati rolled her eyes. “She’s _obviously_ lying again,” she whispered back. “Did you see the way she hesitated?” She shook her head. “I don’t think she has any idea who it’s from, but _my_ money’s on Jeremy Wingward. He’s in her seventh-year class and I heard he’s really good in Charms. It’s either him, or Snape.”

 _“Eww!”_ Lavender squealed. “No way! You think _Snape_ would—”

 _“Girls!”_ Swanson yelled at them. “This is a classroom, not a Quidditch pitch! Would you _please_ show a little respect to the artists we’re discussing?”

Parvati’s mouth fell open. She’d heard Swanson snap before, but never without plenty of warning. Usually, when she caught them chatting in class, she just gave them a stern look and they were good—they didn’t want to make her _mad._ Oh frog brains, had she heard them gossiping about her? Did she totally hate them now?

Lavender looked like she might cry. She loved Swanson.

“I… I just...” Swanson swiped her hair away from her face, her brow wrinkling. Toadstools, she looked like _she_ might cry. Her eyes flicked up to the clock over the door—still almost ten minutes left in the period.

“Class dismissed,” she said.

* * *

Anne pretended to be busy shuffling canvases along the front wall of the classroom as her first-period students filed out. Griffins, she’d been just awful to them today. She’d been completely unfocused and even yelled at a two of her favourite students.

And despite everything, they weren’t fuming with resentment as they shuffled out. In fact, most of them were _concerned_ about her.Even Parvati and Lavender, beneath all the remorse she’d shaken up in them, were worried. It was touching that so many of them cared.

For the millionth time since yesterday afternoon, Anne’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, taking a deep breath. 

A familiar presence warmed her senses. “Good morning, Anne.”

“Hello, Albus.” She turned and forced herself to return the smile of the seasoned wizard standing in her doorway. “Making the rounds this morning?”

“Actually, I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about the impressive collection of sensovials you received yesterday. As a collector myself, I wanted to come and take a look.” Albus searched her face for a moment, his brow wrinkling. “I hope I’m not intruding?”

“Not at all,” Anne answered with all the cheerfulness she could muster. “Come, they’re all here on my desk.”

Leaning down to peer at the line of orbs, he gave a small, delighted laugh. “Ah, and here is the golden fish the students are all so impressed with. May I?” He gestured to it.

“Of course.” Her eyes stung.

Albus picked up the orb and held it close to his face, watching the long, teal fins twirl around the spinning fish. “What magnificent magic. It seems you’ve captured the heart of someone unusually talented.”

“Oh, well…” Anne stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep her tears from spilling over. She blinked a few times before she felt safe meeting the headmaster’s eyes—and when she met them, she knew from the pang of sympathy that he had seen through her act. Sniffling, she said, “Actually, it didn’t work out with him.”

If only she could tell him—or anyone _—_ the whole story. Feeling heartbroken was ten times worse when you had to do it alone, in secret, but who could she talk to about this? Gossip aside, Severus had begged her to _tell no one._ “For your own safety,” he’d said. Whatever that meant.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it,” Albus said, his head tilting to the side. “Well, I know I’m a day late, but if you’ll permit me to add one more sensovial to your collection…” He cupped one hand over the other, closed his eyes for a moment and muttered: “Ovial sensoratum.”

He opened his hands to reveal an orb with a plump, handsome fish, sky blue with white fins. Anne gave a small laugh when she saw it had a long, white beard of wispy whiskers.

“Happy belated birthday,” he said, handing her the sensovial.

She was nervous about how intense the sensation would be—after all, Albus was a famously powerful wizard, so gifted that he had _wandlessly_ created the beautiful fish in a mere moment of concentration. When she touched the sensovial, however, the feeling was all-encompassing without being overpowering. It was a simple, pure set of emotions: kindness, sympathy, a wish to help, hope for good things for her, a reminder of belonging and friendship. The feelings didn’t heighten or fade, they just enveloped her in a comforting weight.

Exhaling deeply, Anne felt a little better for the first time that morning. “Thank you, Albus. This is just what I needed today.”

He gave a nod, smiling. “My door is always open, should you need a friend.” He made his way out into the hall, weaving between students as they entered.

Anne kept the sensovial in her hand through her classes. The envelope of feeling was soothing to her, and it was a relief to have students inquire about this new blue fish and to be able to give them an honest answer. The rest of the day went more smoothly.


	10. Stay Out of my Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne sighed. “This happens, sometimes. When I tell someone I’m an empath. For a while at first, some of their emotions heighten, mostly whatever they’re most afraid I’ll sense. Sexual preoccupation is actually a very common—”

Severus hurried into the Great Hall, beelining for the back of the farthest aisle against the wall and taking a seat on the Slytherin bench as quickly as he could. 

He scanned the room until he found Anne, sitting two aisles over with her back to him, chatting to Poppy and Filius. He’d managed to avoid her entirely for the past two days. Mealtimes posed the greatest challenge, but he’d thus far accomplished it by coming in late, eating quickly and leaving immediately. That, and taking care to sit far away from her. It was difficult this morning, since she’d chosen a spot in the center of the hall, but surely he was still far enough away that she couldn’t sense him.

Even before spooning eggs onto his place, he reached for the tea. It had been yet another long night of very little sleep.

As he ate, he laboured to focus his thoughts on productive topics—an article he had recently read, his lesson plans for the next few days—but his mind felt cloudy and unfocused. He found himself staring at the back of Anne’s head.

He had tried everything to distract himself from thinking about the sensations they’d shared when she’d visited his quarters, but it was becoming increasingly difficult (he’d long lost count of how many cold showers he’d taken). Now, watching her long brown hair fall over her back, his mind wandered to the way she’d run her hands along his chest. What had she called it? The ricochet. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Feeling her with him in his head, feeling the way she’d sparked when she touched him, the way she’d ached for him… It may well have been the most sexually stimulating moment of his entire life.

And they'd barely even touched. 

They’d been fully clothed, touching each other in ways that would scarcely warrant a glance from a strict schoolmarm. If the sheer weight of her body against his produced that level of intensity, what would it have been like if he’d actually gotten to kiss her? If he’d actually gotten to touch her? Dear Godric, if he’d gotten to take her clothes off and really, properly _touch_ her?

As he started to imagine the answers to his questions, Anne’s head snapped back. She stared directly into his eyes, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted. 

Severus pushed himself back from the table in one panicked movement. Could she sense him, even from this distance? Good horror, just how strong _was_ her ability? 

Tripping over the bench and struggling to regain his balance, he tore out of the hall. He’d eat his meals in the foyer from now on, or in the kitchen with the bloody house elves. He had to stay away from her, as far away as possible. What else could he do? Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He couldn’t stop _feeling_ things about her.

And, Merlin help him, some of those feelings were wanton as a satyr.

Severus sped back to his chambers to find out just how close to freezing the water in his shower would go.

* * *

The classroom fell silent as Severus looked up from his marking. 

“Oracle Elixir,” he announced. “Tell me about it. _Knapp.”_

He never heard the answer, because there, sitting in her usual spot at the back beside Jennifer Knapp, was Anne. Their eyes met for a brief instant before she looked away, staring down at the textbook she had open in front of her.

He was thoroughly horrified. If only he’d noticed her before the class started, he could have discreetly asked her to leave, but now it was too late. He’d just have to will himself not to think about her for the duration of the period. It was only an hour. He could manage that. With her sitting right there. He could. Surely.

Knapp finished speaking—he’d prayed she’d given a satisfactory response—and all the eyes in the room turned back to him, waiting.

“What distinguishes Oracle Elixir from Prophetic Draught? _Everly.”_

Just how often had Anne sensed emotions from him in the past? Had he at least blocked out the worst of his more lewd feelings about her? Suddenly, every memory of her crossing her legs from her perch on his front-row desk was potentially mortifying.

Godric, and now he was picturing her legs.

Everly closed his mouth and the room went silent again. Merlin’s beard, _why_ had he called on Everly, who may very well have bungled his answer? Severus had no idea what the boy had just said.

“And by what means can we assess the potency of a batch of Oracle Elixir?” He scanned the room for someone he could count on. _“Blackfoot.”_

It was going to be a rough hour.

* * *

Anne sifted her dragonsand (the _proper_ way, the way Severus had shown them to filter out only the finest grains) keeping her eyes glued down to her desk and generally trying everything she could think of to make herself inconspicuous.

Okay, so Severus was avoiding her. That was fine. Obviously, he was trying to make it clear that nothing was going to develop between them. The thunderclap of dread when he’d noticed her here also suggested he didn’t want her in his classroom, but maybe she could change his mind. If she showed him she had no problem keeping her distance, maybe he’d let that distance shrink to the length of the five rows of desks currently separating them. If not, not only had she lost the fantasy of taking up with her tall, dark professor; she’d also lost the most valuable potion-making resource she’d ever had.

So far, everything was going well. She was back here at her cauldron and he was up front acting completely normal.

Except for the humming.

Much as a low, constant humming would be to an ear, there was a faint current of sexual tension buzzing to her empathic sense from where Severus sat at his desk. In Anne’s experience, the hum was generally a result of repressing one’s libido too long or too tightly. From time to time, she met people so sexually repressed that this humming became a permanent backing track to their emotions. After what had happened in the Great Hall that morning, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to feel it coming from Severus.

Anne added the sifted dragonsand to her cauldron, then bent to her textbook for the next instruction. That’s when the second jolt of the day hit her.

It wasn't painful, just overpowering, like a mouthful of lemon juice. It was one of the two sentiments that always hit her empathic sense with freight train force, even reaching her clearly across the Great Hall: urges to harm her, and particularly graphic sexual thoughts about her. This jolt was every bit as distracting as the one she’d felt at breakfast.

Anne pressed her face closer to her textbook, fighting the urge to look up at Severus. What on earth was going on with him today? Sure, she’d felt flickers of attraction from him in the past, and it was only natural those would increase for a bit while he was processing the news of her ability, but _these_ feelings—

Enough. She had a potion to brew. She ran a finger along the lines of the instructions to help her focus over the incessant humming.

As she hovered her eyedropper over the cauldron, adding the seven mandrake tears, a third jolt hit. 

It was more powerful than the first two; Anne stifled a moan. For a man who acted like he wanted nothing to do with her, he sure was thinking some racy thoughts about her. It was exciting, which made it infuriating. Merlin’s beard, she had plenty of urges in her too, but she knew how to relieve them. She’d come to class relaxed and ready to learn, and now, thanks to whatever skin flick in his head he had her starring in, she was nearly as frustrated and distracted as he was.

She glanced at the dropper in her hand. Oh griffins, how many tears had she added? Six or seven?

Exhaling as much tension out as she could, Anne steadied her hand back over the cauldron. If she was nimble enough, she could squeeze out half a tear. It would have to be close enough.

The fourth jolt almost made her let go of the whole eyedropper.

Gritting her teeth, Anne glared up at the front desk where Severus sat reading _(pretending_ to read). She could feel him clearly, his mind humming and humming like a beehive. Was his mental shield so strained it was wearing thin, or was he not bothering to hold it up at all? Was he launching these feelings at her _on purpose?_

Exasperated, she sent back a response.

 _I wish you would!_ Anne thought. _I wish you’d do whatever it is you’re picturing right now that makes you feel like that!_ She took all the frustration and excitement the idea stirred in her and threw it back at him.

A hand flew across Severus’s mouth as he bit back either a moan or a gasp. A gust of confusion blew through him, followed by a gale of fierce, all-encompassing anger. Looking up, he shot Anne a look so searing she thought it might freeze her in place like a cockatrice’s glance. 

Then he hunched back over his papers and, mercifully, the humming dimmed. Perhaps he’d redoubled his Occlumency efforts.

Anne sat there, waiting to feel another jolt. In a minute, when none came, she picked up her eyedropper and carefully added one half-tear to her cauldron.

* * *

“Professor Swanson,” Severus called as the students began packing their things, “I need a word.” 

Anne weaved through the aisles of students, feeling like a convict approaching the noose. Was there any chance left to change his mind? Or had she dashed her last hope by getting fed up and projecting her feelings to him? She knew she ought to regret that impulsive act that accomplished nothing—she’d angered him _and_ still ruined her potion—but it was hard to stay practical when she knew he’d made up his mind before she’d even walked in the door.

She forced herself to keep trying. “And I wanted to ask _you,_ Professor,” she said, putting on a show of utmost professionalism in front of the students, “about something I came across in the recommended readings you gave last week…” 

Severus allowed her to continue talking, explaining what she’d read and beginning to pose her questions. He waited until the door closed behind the last student. 

Then his face twisted into a snarl. “DO NOT—EVER—DO THAT TO ME—IN PUBLIC—AGAIN.” 

He towered over her, but he couldn’t scare her. Not when she knew how he really felt about her. She leaned into his personal space, shoulders back, taunting him further into the fight. “Fine. How about in private?”

He stepped back from her, moving to sit behind the safety of his desk. “We need to discuss the boundaries of our professional relationship.”

“I’m not getting many _professional_ feelings from you today,” she grumbled. “That one shot I fired at you was nothing compared to the bombs you were raining down on me.” Huffing, she perched herself on top of the front-row desk.

Severus threw up his hand at her. “Why do you insist on using all of my desks as chairs?”

“Why do you pretend it bothers you?” she countered, crossing one leg over the other. “I know you enjoy it.”

 _“Stay out of my head, Anne.”_ He gritted his teeth, his mind tightening up like a fist. “We have a problem here. Though I am quite skilled in Occlumency, I cannot be expected to regulate every single thought and impulse that goes through my head—particularly not while I’m simultaneously trying to teach a class.”

“So _deal with it_ before class. I know this isn’t Health Ed, but you _have_ heard of eja—”

“And _you,_ apparently, can’t restrain yourself enough to allow me even the barest shred of privacy. So we have a problem. And an obvious solution.”

“Oh griffins, Severus, please don’t do that. I promise you, it’ll get easier.” Anne sighed. “This happens, sometimes. When I tell someone I’m an empath. For a while at first, some of their emotions heighten, mostly whatever they’re most afraid I’ll sense. Sexual preoccupation is actually a very common—”

“You can’t continue coming to my class,” he interrupted her. “It isn’t appropriate after everything that’s happened.”

“You want to talk about _appropriate?”_ She scowled up at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry in front of him. “So that’s it, that’s your _obvious_ solution. No empaths allowed in the classroom. Makes everything simple.”

“If you could just control your yourself a bit—”

“Don’t you dare!” she screamed at him, tears stinging at her eyes. “You think it’s _easy_ being like this? I feel what every single person in this school is feeling, sometimes all at once, and I do my best to respond with respect and discretion. Don’t act like _I’m_ the problem here. I didn’t go prying into your deep, secret desires—you crumpled them up in a ball and left them on my desk.”

Wincing, he said: “I told you, that was a mistake…”

 _“Why_ was it a mistake? You keep saying that, but you’ve never explained anything!”

“It’s… a complicated matter.” He stared down at his hands. “I’m not in a position to discuss it and certainly not in a position to drag some unsuspecting person into it. This—us—being too close, revealing too much…” He paused to choose his words. “It’s dangerous. It puts some carefully laid plans at risk of disclosure and it puts your safety in greater jeopardy that you can imagine.”

Anne rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “I can keep a secret, Severus, and I can make my own decisions about who and what I get involved in.” She slid down off the desk and reached for her bags. “You don’t want me in your class, don’t want me around you anymore? Fine. That’s your call. But I don’t buy your excuses for a second.”

She stormed toward the door, wiping at the sides of her eyes.


	11. Unsolicited Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me,” Albus said, folding his hands casually in front of him. “Have you seen this gold sensovial of Professor Swanson’s that everyone’s been talking about?"

Shortly before midnight, Severus stole up the stone staircase, his black cloak floating silently behind him like a spectre’s trail. “Gobstopper,” he spoke softly to the gargoyle on his left, and the office doors rolled open to him.

Albus was sitting behind his desk, bent forward over what appeared to be a series of maps, with a magnifying glass pressed to his eye. 

“You wished to see me?” Severus said.

“Ah yes, good evening.” Albus placed the glass down and shuffled the maps off to the side of his desk. “I wanted to check with you about the defences around the storage space for Goblet of Fire.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “What about them?”

“Well, are they secure?”

“They’re exactly the same as they were two days ago. Do you feel we need addition protection?"

“No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,” Albus answered with the dismissive wave of a hand. “And the guest schools? Will we need any extra security for them, when they arrive?”

“Not unless you’ve changed your mind since we last spoke.” Severus knitted his eyebrows.

“No, it seems everything’s in order then.” Albus sighed and chuckled at himself. “Forgive me, I seem to be worrying myself more than necessary over this tournament.”

“It’s a large undertaking.” Severus stood, waiting for the headmaster’s next request—or, preferably, to be excused.

“Tell me,” Albus said, folding his hands casually in front of him. “Have you seen this gold sensovial of Professor Swanson’s that everyone’s been talking about? I don’t expect you’re an appreciator of such things, but it’s really quite something.”

Severus froze like a field mouse catching scent of a weasel. “You’re right. I am not an appreciator of such things.”

“You know, the funny thing is that for such an extraordinarily beautiful gift, it brings her no joy. When I visited her the other day, she seemed quite upset about it.”

“And did she _say_ anything about it to you?”

“She didn’t, and I wouldn’t dream of intruding into the affairs of someone I’ve known so briefly.”

Severus agreed with a sharp nod.

“But you, on the other hand—” Albus leaned forward in his chair. “—I have known for many long years…”

Severus gave a disgusted groan. “Why do you toy with me like this? If you insist on calling me here expressly to give me unsolicited advice on my personal life, why bother with the pretext?”

“All right, I’ll get to the point. It seems to me, Severus, that although you are a fine and brave man with much to offer, you have long kept yourself in self-inflicted isolation and loneliness. You spend your days doing noble work, yet you continue to punish yourself for the mistakes of your past.”

Arms crossed, Severus shook his head in annoyance.

“And now,” Albus continued, “A smart, lovely woman who makes you laugh out loud in the hallway has seen past your prickly demeanor and come to care for you. And you obviously care greatly for her, as evident by a certain grand romantic gesture—”

“It was never intended as a romantic gesture—”

“—so the question is, why is she fighting back tears in her classroom while you still sit sulking alone over your cauldrons?” With that, Albus leaned back in his chair, waiting for an answer.

Severus gaped at him. “Why? You, of all people, are asking me why?” He put his hands to his head in exasperation. “Because of the nature and sensitivity of the work I’ve taken on—work that _you_ have set for me. Because of the Order, the Death Eaters, because of protecting Harry blasted Potter’s sorry skin.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow your reasoning."

He let his hands drop in disdain. “I have made a dangerous and _secret_ vow to protect the son of the woman I love, which will soon inevitably involve consorting with and lying to the most powerful dark wizard in the world.” He continued in slow and tightly measured words: _“How am I to protect the confidentiality of this mission from a woman who can’t help poking around inside my head?”_

“But Severus…” Albus shook his head. _“You_ are the one who insists on such secrecy. I’ve been recommending for years that we confide the whole truth to select members of the old Order. Why not tell Anne, if and when the relationship progresses to that point?”

“Brilliant.” Severus sneered. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear I’ve devoted myself to a dangerous mission for the love of some other woman—a woman I helped kill, incidentally.”

“You’re talking about a noble cause, a lost love and a terrible mistake made years ago. Anne will understand.”

“And will she understand when the Dark Lord returns and I’m called to play the puppet at his side again?” Severus began pacing in front of the desk. “I wonder, how do you think she feels about torturing and killing wizards? How about muggles?”

“You have a difficult role to play. Sometimes you are put in situations where there is no choice that will avoid hurting people. But there is no one I trust more than you to make the necessary decisions to prevent the greatest _overall_ harm. Anne will just have to trust you as well.”

“It isn’t fair to ask her to trust me! Don’t you see that? If anything goes wrong—if I slip up, if something leaks out—they won’t just come after me, they’ll come after her too. If I truly care for her, why would I ever let her get involved with me?”

“Sadly, that is a question we all must ask ourselves.” With a heavy sigh, Albus took off his glasses to polish them with the sleeve of his robe. “There were pairs of spouses in the old Order: Frank and Alice Longbottom, Lily and James Potter—”

“Are you reading off tombstones?”

“—and when the Order reforms it will surely include couples and families as members once again. How do you think poor Molly Weasley feels? With Ron and Harry being so close, her entire family is bound to be in danger when Voldermort returns.”

“She’s a fool, then, to let her son fraternize with—”

 _“She’s no fool!”_ Albus rose to his feet. “The only fool is the coward who runs from either of the two things that give any meaning to our short little lives: love, and standing up for what is right.”

Severus glared back at him, breathing heavily. “You called me brave a minute ago, and now you call me a coward.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter—I won’t do it again. I won’t risk losing someone like that a second time.”

“But that is the risk we all take when we love. We are fragile creatures who live short lives. At any moment, any one of us may die senselessly at the whims of chance and fate.” Albus rested his palms on his desk, looking tired in more than his body. “I do hope you’ll reconsider, Severus.”

Severus sneered at him. “And I hope _you’ll_ reconsider, Albus, the next time you feel the urge to advise me on my love life.” 

Tugging his cloak forcefully to his chest, he stomped out.


	12. Ebb and Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus tapped the fingers of one hand against the desk. After a moment, he sat up straighter. “I’m trying to decide how much I can safely tell you about my past and the work I do. To explain why I’ve acted the way I have to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Mention of creepy stalker behaviour in a past relationship.

“You’re dismissed,” Severus said to his seventh-year class. He bent to his book.

Then found his eyes glancing up yet again at their own impulse. For the entire period, the desk at the back of the room had been like a magnet, pulling his gaze. It looked _wrong,_ sitting there so empty. How could a desk be so distracting, without Anne even sitting in it?

He hadn’t seen her in over a week, except for chance sightings in the common areas of the school. He saw her in the Great Hall at meals (he was eating there again—his libido had broken its fever and reclaimed its normal temperature after a few days, just as Anne had said it would). Once, passing by him in the hallway, she’d acknowledged him with a cordial nod. On Sunday he’d seen her and Haberdash flying three feet above the field on broomsticks; apparently she had taken him up on a lesson after all. 

Severus sighed and tried to focus on his book. These were his only friends, once again: books and cauldrons. If he grew desperate enough for conversation to listen to a sermon, perhaps Albus too.

A knock rapped against his open door and he looked up.

It was her. It was Anne.

“This will only take a minute,” she said, keeping her face serious. “I thought it was time we touched base on your department’s involvement in CHARM.”

Godric, it was good to see her. Though it shouldn’t be—he needed to be on guard. He couldn’t let her get too close. Is that what she’d really come for? Did this mean she was trying to pick up where they’d left off, as friends? _Could_ they be friends? Could he allow it?

There was a tempest of competing emotions inside him right now—could she sense any of it? He found himself struggling to care about that.

She blinked at him from the doorway. “Well? Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Severus said, motioning to her usual front-row seat.

In fact, perhaps he ought not block out his emotions to her right now at all. He could at least show her he wasn’t _afraid_ of her ability (or still salivating uncontrollably over her like a randy bloody teenager). Perhaps it would help rebuild some of her faith in him.

Approaching his desk, Anne handed him several papers clipped together. “I know you don’t care to meet with either Hagrid or Professor Moody in person, so I’ve brought some notes on their classes for you to mull over on your own.” She stood there in front of him, instead of sitting on the front desk. 

“Ah. I suppose I can consider some additional changes to my syllabus.”

He skimmed his eyes over her notes. Could they still be friends? Was there a way to explain his situation, to tell her just enough to let her understand? To bring her back into his life?

“Okay, well, look them over and think about it,” Anne said. “Can I check back with you early next week?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Good afternoon then.” She started for the door.

* * *

She was halfway across the room when Severus called: “Anne?”

Anne turned back to him, swallowing an impatient huff. Why had he opened himself to her when he had a war going on his head? He was going back and forth about something, his thoughts crashing in and out like the waves of a tide. The repetitive ebb and flow irritated her.

Severus held up her notes. “You’ve misspelled _Verdimillious_. Two Ls.”

She almost groaned. Why was he beating around the bush? She could sense his emotions loud and clear—she _knew_ he wanted her to stay, but she was officially done trying to navigate the maze of his feelings. If he wanted something from her, he was going to have to come right out and say it.

“Mark it for me,” she said, turning to leave again.

“And I was wondering…” He hesitated, the waves crashing and crashing in his head. “What’s a blast-ended skrewt?”

“It’s a hybrid Hagrid’s working on,” Anne answered, rubbing her temples where a headache was rapidly developing. “He’s cross-breeding manticores and fire crabs.”

“Sounds adorable. I don’t suppose he knows yet whether they will retain the charm-repellent skin from the manticore side?” Ebb and flow. Crash, crash, _crash._

“I’m sorry, Severus,” said Anne, wincing. “Would you mind shielding?”

“Shielding?”

“I don’t know what you’re fighting about in your head— _and I don’t care what you decide_ —but the sensation is so loud it’s _deafening.”_

He closed his mind to her at once and she was relieved to feel his barrier had regained its original strength since the last time she’d seen him. The throbbing in her temples receded.

“And here I’d kept my mind open to you on purpose, as a show of trust,” Severus said, glancing down into his hands. “I didn’t know the emotions could be so debilitating to you.”

“They get pretty intense when the feelings are powerful and directed at me.” Rolling her eyes, she quickly added: “I mean _about_ me. Sorry, I know you hate the invasion.”

“No, it’s…” He tapped the fingers of one hand against the desk. After a moment, he sat up straighter. “I’m trying to decide how much I can safely tell you about my past and the work I do. To explain why I’ve acted the way I have to you.”

Well, that was a start.

“Okay,” Anne said, walking back toward him.

“I need to tell you enough for you to understand the dangers of the situation, but not so much that you’ll walk away with sensitive information if… if you choose to walk away.” He looked away, swallowing.

“So let’s start small,” she said, hoisting herself up onto the front desk. “Actually, maybe _I_ should start by telling you what I’ve picked up already.”

Severus started. Raising an eyebrow to her, he said with a slight sharpness: “Yes, I would certainly care to know _that.”_

* * *

Severus swallowed hard as a small seed of dread sprouted in his stomach. It had never occurred to him that Anne might have gleaned anything more calamitous from him than his detrimental feelings for her. Was it actually possible she’d already sensed something to do with his past or his work for Albus? Anything that she could infer relevant information from?

And here he’d been clutching his pearls, worried she’d catch him in a naughty thought.

Anne sat forward on the desk. She took a deep breath in and exhaled before speaking. 

“You don’t just think you’re dangerous to me,” she told him. “You think you’re poison, to everyone. And I get it—there’s definitely a darkness in you, a part of you that can be cruel and sadistic and power-hungry.” 

She had been looking down at the floor as she said this, but now she met his eyes. “But something happened, and it made you afraid of that part of you, made you hate it. You lost someone, someone important, and you haven’t let go of them or forgiven yourself. Instead, you took on a promise or a quest of some sort, as penance. It doesn’t make you happy, but it’s enough to let you live with yourself. And you fight against the dark parts of yourself. You push away ambition and glory and desire. They’re just urges you’ve learned to control.”

Severus stared at her wide-eyed as she spoke, two fingers of his hand curved over his mouth. Again, he considered in horror how powerful she would be if she practiced Legilimency. As it was, just from picking up his feelings over the past weeks, she’d swatched out the broadest colours of his past into a recognizable portrait.

“But that’s why I trust you,” she continued. “Why I’m _not_ afraid of you. Because you can control it. When I opened to you, I knew it was safe. It’s a powerful sensation, addictive to some people, but I knew you could handle it.” She dropped her head. “I made a mistake, once, opening to someone who wasn’t so strict with himself. It was fine at first, but after a while he couldn’t let me go. I ended things with him last winter, but for months I could feel him following me, watching me, obsessing. In the spring, when my classes finished, I decided to put an ocean between us.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He opened his mind to her again, wanting her to know how honoured he was by her trust—and how outraged he was at the person who had abused it. Hopefully, now that he’d decided what to tell her, his other emotions had quieted to a tolerable pitch.

Anne watched him, chewing her lip. “Does it bother you, that I was able to figure out so much about you?”

“You know very well that it does,” he answered, sighing. “But you’re right, it was a good place to start.” Clearing his throat, he asked: “How much do you know about the First Wizarding War here in Britain?”

“I followed it pretty closely in the papers at the time,” she said, shrugging. “A powerful evil wizard and his followers, mass killing, widespread terror. We were far away from it in Canada, but of course we were scared it would spread. I was finishing my studies, but some of my older friends wanted to come over and join—what was it called? The Order of the Phoenix. But then there was the event with Harry Potter and it all just seemed to disappear overnight.”

“Maybe it felt like that where you were,” Severus said. “Here, there was some considerable aftermath, especially with the Dark Lord’s followers, the Death Eaters. Have you seen photographs of the Dark Mark?”

“Yes, the skull with the snake.” She looked off in the distance, brows knitted. “It would appear in the sky… and on…” She gasped, closing one of her hands around her wrist. “Is _that_ what you were looking for that night? You thought I was a _Death Eater?”_

“My allegiance to Albus Dumbledore has made me rather unpopular with Death Eaters. However, it wasn’t always that way.” He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the faded mark along his forearm. “You’re right about the mistakes of my youth.”

Anne slid forward off the desk, coming closer to look at the mark. He watched her expression, wondering what she was sensing from him now. Shame? Remorse? Perhaps a pang of fear that this would be too much for her?

Meeting his eye, she said softly: “So _this_ is the hidden thing that makes people afraid of you. I knew there was something more than your scowl and strictness, but I hadn’t figured it out.”

“This would be it,” Severus agreed, pulling his sleeve back down.

“But that was a long time ago.”

“It was, and I’ve been telling the other Death Eaters for years that the Dark Lord is dead and that we need to move on.” Severus sighed heavily. “But of course, they know the truth and so do I—the Dark Lord grows stronger every day. Soon he will return and when he calls his Death Eaters, the ones who don’t show up will be in grave danger. And so will everyone they care about.”

“And _you_ especially.” Anne scanned his face like there were words printed on it. 

Terror flashed through him. He snapped his mind closed against her, praying he’d been quick enough.

“Because you betrayed him,” she said. “Because you’re _still_ betraying him, somehow. And you’ll—”

 _“Enough!”_ Severus barked, rising to his feet. _“Don’t say another word._ ” He put his hands to the sides of his face, feeling his blood drain. “What you just said—is enough to get us both killed.”

“But I wouldn’t tell anyone—”

“The Dark Lord doesn’t need to _ask_ you for information, he can simply look into your mind. And if he looks into either of our minds and hears _that_ particular scrap of conversation, he’ll kill us both.” He sat back down at the desk, defeated. “I’ve used Occlumency to protect my thoughts from him before, but as _you_ of all people know, I’m hardly infallible. And how about you, Anne? You can project your feelings, but can you _block_ them?” Elbows on the desk, he rested his head in his hands.

Anne leaned down to put her face at his level. “You could teach me.”

Severus gave a soft grunt.

“Well, why not? I’m an excellent student.” Straightening herself, she said: “And I could teach _you_ a thing or two as well, you know. About that mind shield of yours. You hold it too tightly sometimes, for one thing. It can make things slip out.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. “You get so mad at me for knowing your feelings, but it’s like you’re _tossing_ them at me sometimes. Teach me how you put up your shield—and I’ll help you strengthen it enough to block out an empath.”

Severus stared off into space, considering her words. It _would_ be an interesting exercise, practicing Occlumency with a human polygraph. And perhaps he could indeed teach her a bit of it. That might actually solve a whole host of problems. It might even open up some exciting new possibilities for them.

He stood up suddenly and rushed to collect his things off his desk. “I need time to think.”

“Oh. Well, okay...” Anne stumbled out of his way and he came around the side of the desk. He hurried her out of his classroom, nearly pushing her through the door ahead of him.

Long strides carried him off from her in the direction of the headmaster’s office. Now that the issue had taken a new turn, Severus was chagrined to find himself about to _seek_ Albus’s advice on the matter.


	13. It's Too Late, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you’re planning to ask her out," Albus said, "you might think about doing it sooner rather than later. She and Professor Haberdash seem to have grown quite close.”

“And if she _can’t_ learn it?” Severus asked, pacing back and forth in front of the desk. “After all, emotional deadening is hardly Anne’s strong suit. It’s a possibility we have to consider.”

Albus opened his mouth to point out that Anne was a dedicated student in many subjects, but lost his opportunity as what appeared to be an end to Severus’s speech was, in fact, but a brief pause.

“Of course, she is rather a gifted learner,” Severus continued. “Quite intelligent. Brilliant, actually. We discuss Potions regularly and I’m forever having to remind myself that it isn’t actually her area of expertise at all. Who’s to say, then, that she might not show equal aptitude in Occlumency?”

Albus stared at him, blinking, as he spoke. Who _was_ this long-winded wizard who had appeared in his office, ostensibly seeking advice? Usually Severus had few words to offer, and those given only reluctantly. If not for the subject matter, Albus might have suspected an impostor.

“And given what she’s already figured out about me,” Severus went on before Albus could voice his agreement, “we haven’t much to lose in trying.That empathic sense of hers is astounding. Terrifying. ‘A promise made in penance.’ She inferred that from pure emotion alone. Can you imagine?”

By now Albus had resigned himself to his role as a sounding board. He gave a sympathetic nod.

“If she were to commit herself to the study of Occlumency,” Severus said, wringing his hands, “and if we were to take things slowly— _very_ slowly—slow enough to give her a chance to back out of this wildly ill-advised proposition before she’s in too deep…” Coming to a halt, he turned toward the desk with a look of excruciating hope. “Would it be complete folly for me to pursue a relationship with her?”

Albus gave him a broad smile.

“Well _say something_ for Merlin’s sake,” Severus snapped. “I come to you for advice and for once all you do is sit there!”

“I think it’s a fine idea,” Albus said quickly, sitting up in his chair. “It sounds like you’re planning to take sensible precautions, and like you said, she already knows enough to put you both at some risk. At this point, Occlumency lessons would certainly be prudent either way.”

“And if she doesn’t take to it?”

“Anne is very resourceful,” Albus said dreamily, toying with a set of runes on his desk. “I’m sure she’ll concoct some strategy that works for her. Besides—” He tucked his chin to peer over his glasses “—I think you may have higher hills to climb than Occlumency lessons.” 

He turned back to his runes, trying to keep the smile from his lips. The truth was, he had every faith in Severus’s judgement, cautiousness and teaching ability. If there was to be a setback in the budding of this relationship, it was that Severus would ruminate over it too long to ever plant the seed in the first place.

“Must you always speak in such deliberate obscurity?” Severus rolled his eyes. “Spit it out. What obstacle have I overlooked?”

Albus smiled at him. “Anne’s loveliness.”

“I assure you," Severus said, exasperated, _"that_ is something I’ve never failed to notice.” He covered his face with one hand.

“I mean to other people. Surely you don’t think you’re the only one who fancies her?”

The hand dropped. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying if you’re planning to ask her out, you might think about doing it sooner rather than later.” To avoid making eye contact, Albus pretended to be very fascinated with a particular rune. “She and Professor Haberdash seem to have grown quite close. Word in the Great Hall’s that he sent her a choir of singing roses yesterday.”

“How inspired,” Severus grumbled.

“Apparently she likes them enough to keep them on her desk. Go and take a look for yourself. Oh! That reminds me—” Albus shuffled through the piles of paper on the far end of his desk. “Just a second, they’re here somewhere. Ah—here!” He pulled a yellow envelope out from the stack. “An acquaintance of mine sent me these tickets to an art exhibit in London next Friday night. Sadly, I have other plans, but I know it’s an artist Anne’s fond of.”

He held out the envelope to Severus, who blinked at him.

Albus shrugged. “Well if you don’t want to take her yourself, at least pass them on to her for me? Perhaps she’ll invite Brock.”

Severus glared a glare so cold it would freeze a chimera’s breath, but he reached out and snatched the envelope before storming out of the office. Albus covered his smile behind his hand, just in case the wizard should chance to look back.

* * *

After their last talk, Anne had let herself get her hopes up that there was some way to move forward with Severus. However, as the weekend went by and all she saw from him was polite nods across the Great Hall at meals, that possibility seemed less and less likely. She still felt him noticing her in public spaces with his usual combination of sad longing and stormy deliberation; apparently, he was content to keep their relationship at that.

That's what she’d told herself and was working to accept, when, early the following Wednesday morning, Severus came to her classroom. Anne was rearranging a display of student sculptures (a precarious task, when the ceramic squirms) when she sensed him behind her in the doorway, watching.

“Come to discuss those CHARM notes I gave you?” she asked, brushing specks of plaster from her pants as she turned to him. If he wanted things professional, she’d keep them professional.

“Notes?” he asked, confused. “Oh. No, I’m afraid they slipped my mind, actually. My apologies. I’ll get to them by the end of the week.” He looked the same as always, wearing his dark clothes and his somber expression, but there was a nervousness to him she hadn’t felt before. He glanced down at a yellow envelope he was fidgeting with in his hands.

 _He isn’t here about CHARM,_ Anne thought, her pulse quickening. _And he’s nervous._

An exciting possibility formed in her mind and she had to firmly remind herself not to get too hopeful about it. After all, there were plenty of reasons he could be here. Coming to ask her out wasn’t terribly likely.

After a moment, when he didn’t say anything further, she smiled at him and said: “Well, do you want to come in? You’ve never visited my classroom before.” The collection of sensovials on the wall beside her caught her eye. “Except for that one time, of course.”

“Right. That one time.” Slowly parting from the safety of the doorway, Severus shuffled into the room, glancing at the bouquet of singing roses on her desk as he passed. 

Sensing his motion, the flowers woke and launched into the first verse of what had, until just recently, been one of Anne’s favourite songs: _“You’re too late, baby, to possess my heart…”_ It was the only song the roses sang and Anne had heard it about a hundred times in the past week (mercifully, at a lower volume now that the flowers were finally withering).

Severus motioned to a series of floating geometric pieces on the wall beside them. “Is this your algae art?”

Anne beamed at him. “I can’t believe you remembered. Yes, these are the student pieces.”

He looked them over, nodding politely, then glanced back down to the envelope in his hands. Jittery anticipation fluttered through him, like a child summoning the courage to jump from a high diving board.

_Merlin’s beard, he’s here to ask me out._

“Anne, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our last conversation.” The envelope tapped and tapped in his hand. “I wanted to ask…”

_He’s going to ask me out!_

“Were you serious,” he asked, looking up, “about wanting to learn Occlumency?”

“Occlumency. Oh.” Anne cleared her throat, struggling to readjust her expectations before they showed on her face. “I mean, yes. Absolutely.”

 _“I tripped and fell when you cast your spell,”_ the roses sang, _“but you made me wait and now it’s too late…”_

“Because I think it’s important that you do learn,” Severus said, eyes flitting to the flowers with annoyance. “Given what you know. For both our protection. I can teach you, but it’s a difficult skill to master, particularly for those who feel deeply.”

Anne waved her hand. “I’m sure I’ll pick it up. I’m a fantastic student. And you’re a great teacher.” She nudged his foot playfully with her shoe.

Severus gave a small smile and looked down at the envelope again. “If you can learn to guard your mind, that opens up some possibilities...”

Once more, Anne’s heart began to thump in her chest.

* * *

“For example,” Severus said, not daring to look up from the envelope, “if you were to learn Occlumency…”

 _“But now it’s just too late,”_ sang the flowers. “ _You’re just too late.”_

He fought to hold his train of thought as his glance flicked involuntarily to the roses swaying rhythmically on Anne’s desk. “...it would be far less dangerous for us, spending time together.”

But was he too late?

Not only was Haberdash’s tacky bouquet very much a reality, it was still here holding its place of honour on the front of her desk nearly a week after the half-witted peacock had given it to her. The petals were browning at the edges, some of them even fallen off onto the desk, and yet here the flowers were, serenading taunts at Severus as he stumbled through the speech he'd so carefully rehearsed. Anne might as well have invited Haberdash himself to come sit on the desk and heckle.

“That would be nice,” Anne said, taking a small step closer as she smiled up at him.

Severus took that smile as a sign of encouragement and forged on. “You would still be at some risk. I need you to take that into serious consideration before you make a decision.”

Anne’s smile widened. “A decision about what?”

 _“You’re just too late!”_ sang the flowers. _“You’re just too late!”_

Severus fumbled with the clasp of his cloak, which had become stiflingly hot over the past few minutes, the ever-wrinkling envelope in his hand scratching against his neck as he loosened the fastening. He’d spent so much time fretting over how to pose this question to Anne (and whether he even should), he hadn’t considered that she might turn him down—not out of caution, but because she was no longer interested.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “I haven’t left you much time to reflect on the matter…”

_“You’re too late! You’re too late!”_

“...but I hope I’ve given you sufficient information to make an educated decision…” 

_“Too late! Too late! Too late!”_

The envelope twisted in his clenched fist as his eyes wandered to the bouquet again. “That is… I wanted to ask you…”

_“TOO LATE! TOO LATE! TOO—”_

“Silencio!” Anne shouted, flicking her wand toward her desk, and the room went blissfully quiet. “Sorry,” she said, turning her attention back to Severus. “The singing’s getting on my nerves too. It was sweet of Brock—I told him I liked the Weird Sisters—but I’m not much for singing flowers, especially after a week…”

Severus lost track of her words as his heart plummeted into his stomach. Swallowing his bitterness, he tucked the hand holding the envelope back behind his cloak and wracked his brain for a way to excuse himself with his dignity still intact. If she was openly telling him about the flowers another man had sent her, which she’d kept sitting on her desk for a week, that about as crystal-clear a signal as she could send. He was indeed _too late, too late_ : she was with Haberdash, that fool’s gold beacon to whom even insightful, cultured women were apparently drawn. 

The thought had barely crossed his mind when Anne blurted: “I’m not with him!”

Severus raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I sensed you might be thinking…” She stammered, then started to ramble. “But I’m not with Brock. I don’t feel that way about him and I told him so when he gave me the flowers. But I thanked him and accepted them and I kept them on my desk just to be nice. I was just trying to be polite, you know? Maybe make him feel better.” She broke off speaking and paused for a moment, waiting, staring at him so intensely he could almost feel her probing around inside his head, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Please,” she said finally, her eyes dropping to the hand he hid inside his cloak. “You were going to… You wanted to ask me…”

He slid his hand out, lifting the envelope to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he said: “I have tickets to an art exhibit in London this Friday evening. Supposedly it’s an artist you—”

“Yes!” She rushed forward, putting her hands over his. “I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t even know who it is yet.”

“Are you asking me out?" Her eyes shone like moonlit stones. "Because if you’re asking me out, I don’t care who it is.”

"I am." Severus was so relieved and gladdened by her words, he would have smiled—if not for her recklessness. “But don’t answer yet. At least take the afternoon to think it over.”

“I don’t need the afternoon. I know what I want.” She looked up at him and her smile was so bright it was like the sun itself shining into him and lighting up dark corners he had forgotten even existed. He felt such lightness, such a rush of pure joy—

No, he realized with sudden alarm, those were _her_ feelings. She was projecting to him. He threw down the shield of his mind against her, forcing her emotions out.

“Anne, stop,” he said, stepping back from her. The last thing he wanted was to start a ricochet between them, especially in her classroom twenty minutes before class started. “I’m flattered you feel that way, but it’s too soon for such intimacies between us. If we’re going to do this safely, we need to take things slowly.”

She watched him, studying his face. “You think I’m going to get spooked and change my mind, but I’m not.”

“You don’t know that.” He dropped his eyes to the floor.

She opened her mouth to answer, but closed it quickly as two of her students wandered through the door, chatting to one another with their black art portfolios tucked under their arms. Catching sight of Severus, they cut conversation abruptly and gaped as if they’d walked into a troll in the lavatory. Severus gave them an icy stare and they whirled towards the nearest seats and began configuring their easels with shaky hands.

To Anne, he said, “I’ll have those CHARM notes returned to you by Friday,” and nodded a stiff goodbye before he spun for the door.

“Severus, wait!” 

Her footsteps hurried up behind him and when he turned she was standing slightly closer than she should have been. Severus’s eyes flicked to the two students to ensure they weren’t taking notice.

Anne smiled, a bit shyly. “Does this mean…” 

He was about to hush her before she blurted out something all too conspicuous within earshot of the students, but she finished: “...that I can come back to your Thursday class?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes, I suppose. But perhaps not this week—we’re finishing up a potion we started last class.”

“Vilonia tonic,” she said, nodding. “I know. I have mine started.” She looked away, her face colouring. “I’ve been doing my best to follow along on my own. Jennifer Knapp’s been letting me borrow her notes.”

For a moment, Severus was simultaneously so honoured and so humbled, he couldn’t speak. Did his class mean so much to her? And here he’d excluded her from it, not because it made any bit of difference to her safety, but simply because it made him uncomfortable to have her around him, sensing him. She’d called him on that, and she’d been right. But if he’d ever dreamed the lessons were that important to her…

“Very well,” he said, his voice sounding choked. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”


	14. Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what he should have done decades ago, with Lily. Severus had blown that chance quickly and completely, and had never expected to feel strongly enough about another woman to have a second one, but here he was. 
> 
> And, Merlin help him, he was going to do this right. Properly. Gentlemanly. Perfectly.

“I’m really looking forward to our date, Severus,” Anne had said, her hair spilling over her face as she tilted her head, veiling the warmth of her smile like a candle through amber glass.

That was yesterday afternoon, as she left his seventh-year Potions class (the last to leave, as always), and now Severus played it over and over in his head as he hurried around his quarters, preparing for their date in half an hour. At least, he’d started out preparing. After getting washed and dressed, he didn’t know what more to do to himself, so to keep occupied he switched to straightening up the contents of his rooms.

 _“I’m really looking forward to our date, Severus.”_ Her smile. Her hair. The way she said his name. It was perfect. And tonight would be perfect too.

Straightening a row of dusty books on his office shelf, it suddenly occurred to Severus that this was the only date he’d ever been on. He’s slept with women before—Death Eaters, all of them—but that had been mainly to prove himself, to cement his status in the dark circle he’d been running in. He hadn’t cared much for those woman, nor particularly enjoyed his time with them.

This was different. This is what he should have done decades ago, with Lily. He’d blown that chance quickly and completely, and had never expected to feel strongly enough about another woman to have a second one, but here he was. 

And, Merlin help him, he was going to do this right. Properly. Gentlemanly.

_“I’m really looking forward to our date, Severus.”_

Perfectly.

After turning to make a full inspection of the back of his cloak in the mirror—he picked off a rust-coloured cat hair, cursing Filch—Severus strode out the door and began the long climb up the dungeon stairs.

* * *

Anne pushed through the Entrance Hall and into the chill October night air of the courtyard, pulling her long coat closed tight around her (cloaks had fallen out of fashion decades ago in the colder countries, and Anne didn’t own one).

In the silvery light of the hunter’s moon, the courtyard stood silent and empty. She craned her head up at the big clock over the doorway to check that she had the right time. Then a pang of anticipation sounded from her left and she turned to watch Severus step from the shadows of one of the pillars.

“You’re certain none of the students saw you?” he asked, making his way to where she stood on the front stairs.

“You’re so paranoid,” Anne teased, laughing. Then, when she saw he was still waiting for an answer: “No, no one saw me.” She shook her head at him, still smiling. If he wanted to fret so much over student gossip, fine. It would be more fun to sneak around a bit anyway.

 _That_ was what tonight was all about: fun. They were heading off school property, leaving behind all the rules and watchful eyes and boring teachers’ clothing. She was finally going to get to see him relax a bit, maybe even cut loose. And, best of all, they were ducking under a cover of big-city anonymity that would allow her, at last, to show him a hint of affection without him lecturing her about prudence and propriety.

Grinning, she closed the last distance between them and reached for his hand.

“Hey, calm down,” she said as he flinched back and she felt a reflexive ripple of alarm shoot through him. She weaved her fingers between his and held on tightly. Insistently. “There’s no one out here—I would feel them if there were.”

He paused, looking down at their entwined hands, and for a moment she sensed that he was as focused on trying to read his own emotions as she was. Finally, looking up, he said, “All right. But we should go. We’ll have to clear the property before we can apparate.”

Severus led her across the courtyard and down the dirt trail that ran along the border of the Black Lake, moving in strides so long she nearly had to jog to keep up with him. Once they’d passed safely out of view of Hagrid’s cabin, Anne dug her heel into the ground.

“Can we please slow down now?” She tugged him to a stop. “What’s the rush? Look, it’s just us. Alone. On this beautiful moonlit night.” She gestured to their surroundings: dark forest on one side, shimmering lake on the other. What could be more perfect than this? Normally, Anne would have been thrilled to go to an art exhibit, but at this moment it was just one more place where they wouldn’t be alone together. 

She stepped in closer to him, running her thumb over the side of his hand, and felt his awareness spike, his heart bucking like a bull in his chest as she brought her face within inches of his. “I’ve been wanting this for weeks, Severus.” She wanted him to really know she had, so she projected herself to him—just slightly, just a playful splash off the surface of her deep desire.

He jumped back from her, yanking his hand away as though she’d burned him, and battered down access to his mind, shutting her out.

“You can’t do that,” he told her, holding his hand out to shield against her.

“Why not? We’re on a date.”

“It’s too soon. I told you, we need to take this slowly.”

She gaped at him, lost for words. She’d barely opened herself to him at all—that had been the empathic equivalent of a kiss on the cheek and he’d reacted like she’d just flashed him. Merlin’s beard, just how slowly did he intend to go?

“When you do that,” Severus said, “when you project, it gets too intense too fast. How slowly can we possibly go if we start to…” He finished the sentence by spiraling the index fingers of his hands around one another.

“Ricochet,” she filled in. Was the word so shameful to him that he couldn’t even say it?

A sudden realization hit Anne in the stomach and the corners of her eyes began to sting. When she’d reached for his hand before and he’d flinched—that wasn’t just first date jitters or being wary of onlookers. It was because of her ability. Because he apparently thought things would spiral out of control into debauchery if she pressed an inch of her skin to him or shared the slightest whim of her attraction.

“Let’s continue on,” he said.

But she was frozen in place, mind reeling. The way he’d hurried her across the grounds. He wanted to get them somewhere public because he was afraid of what would happen if they were alone together. As though she were some kind of succubus, tempting men with her depraved desires.

Angry words burned in her mouth and she would have pulled back her lips and launched them at him—maybe with a raging blast of empathic projection, just to prove she was more than a walking libido—if at that moment Severus hadn’t stepped toward her and done two things: he opened his mind back up to her and, though it still sent sparks of warning crackling through him, he took both her hands in his.

“I’ve kept you waiting too long,” he said softly, “with my indecision and my… well, my cowardice, perhaps. I’m sorry. But now I must ask you to wait a little longer, for your own safety. I know that doesn’t concern you,” he added quickly as she started to speak, “so, please, do it for me. Because it concerns me. Because I care about you.”

As he spoke, looking down into her eyes, an agonizing squall of longing stormed across his mind, extinguishing the anger she’d felt at him. How could she have been so selfish? Here she’d been about to throw a tantrum when he’d only been trying to look out for her. She squeezed his hands.

“I want to keep my mind open to you tonight,” Severus said, “but I need you to promise you won’t project. I enjoy the feeling, of course I do, but we’re not ready for that yet. Please, will you promise me?”

She smiled sadly, nodding. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” He lifted one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it, never taking his eyes off hers. “Shall we go on to the exhibit now?”

Smiling, she nodded again and pulled him back into a walk, this time at a more comfortable pace. As they made the rest of the way to the property edge, she decided to cut the poor man a break by striking up a conversation about an article she’d read over the weekend on how cauldron shapes might affect the brewing strengths of certain potions. As expected, Severus had several insights to offer on the subject.

They continued around the side of the lake until they stepped out onto a paved road that Severus said marked the end of the property. Were they to continue down the road, they would come to the town of Hogsmeade; instead, Severus tightened his grip on her hand, Anne nodded to confirm her readiness, and they apparated out of the crisp moonlight—

—and directly into the bustling foyer of the London Museum of Magical Art. It was Anne’s first visit, and she found her head immediately bent back, taking in the enormous seascape scene that splashed and sailed across the ceiling.

“May I take your cloak?” a voice asked behind her.

“No, thank you,” Severus answered. Now that they were in a better lit space, she saw with surprise that he had dressed exactly as he always did at school: completely buried under layers of heavy black fabric. Anne had always assumed he dressed that way as a show of formality; evidently, it was just his preference.

“And you, Ma’am?” the coat clerk asked, turning toward her. “May I take your... coat?” She felt a pinprick of judgement from the clerk, who wore a long black gown with lace sleeves.

In fact, Anne realized as she looked around her, most of the witches and wizards here seemed to adhere to the more traditional wizarding community fashion: cloaks, caps, gowns, long sleeves and longer hemlines. It looked like they’d apparated back in time to an earlier century! She only spotted a handful of other people wearing muggle clothing, which was surprising, since the artist whose work they were here to see was muggle-born. She’d expected his admirers to be better versed in the culture.

“I keep forgetting how differently people dress over here,” Anne said to Severus as she unbuttoned her coat. “We’re much more casual in Canada.” The clerk took her coat, giving a polite smile outwardly and a sneer internally as her eyes flicked down to Anne’s exposed lower thighs. Anne smiled her most sickeningly saccharine smile back and thanked her.

She reached for Severus’s hand again beside her, but grasped only air. He’d stepped back from her again, his eyes on the floor. Worse, she realized, feeling for him in the crowd, he’d shut himself off from her again.

“Hey, what happened?” she asked, moving closer to him.

* * *

Severus’s eyes shot down to the floor, but the image was seared on the inside of his skull: Anne slipping her coat from her shoulders to reveal a crimson velvet dress, long-sleeved and high-necked in the front, but thin and clinging tight enough to let his eyes slalom down the curves of her body to the middle of her thighs, where her dress ended and her bare skin began. That was bad enough, but then she turned to hand her coat, showing him how the dress plunged down to her waist at the back. More smooth, bare skin. Below that, more curves. Below that, more skin.

He’d snapped his mind closed like a jaw, praying his quickness and the cacophony of the room had protected her from his helpless obscenity. It was difficult enough keeping his more primal emotions in check when he stayed open to her at Hogwarts, where sweaty lust-extinguishing teenagers thronged the corridors and Anne’s skirts at least fell to her knees. Even there, he hadn’t always succeeded in suppressing his urges before they reached her. How could she expect him to keep his thoughts sufficiently gentlemanly when she was hanging off him, wearing a tight dress that made him want to—

“Hey, what happened?” Her shoes appeared at the edge of his polished floor view.

 _Your date’s a lecherous dog, Anne,_ he thought. _That’s what happened._

Whatever strategy he needed to conjure up to survive the evening, it couldn’t involve averting his eyes all night. Severus forced his gaze directly up to meet her eyes, hoping desperately his guarded feelings wouldn’t spill out to her as they occasionally did.

“You look beautiful,” he told her in a smooth voice that would fool the Dark Lord himself. “Shall we go in?” Taking her hand, he led her toward the stairs that ran up to the second-floor exhibit.

“You closed off to me,” she said, eyebrows knitting as she leaned forward to study his face. “You said you wanted to stay open tonight.”

“I didn’t realize it would be so crowded here,” he lied, guiding her through the clusters of people loitering in conversation on the wide staircase. “It must be quite overwhelming for you.”

“No worse than the Great Hall. Really, I wish you’d stay open.”

When they reached the second floor and he still hadn’t opened or devised a better excuse, she pulled him aside to an empty section of railing overlooking the entrance.

“What’s going on?” she asked him. “Is it my dress?”

“Your dress?” he asked, frowning. “Of course not.” 

He didn’t want to lie to her, but what choice did he have? If she had any idea what the sight of her in that just _slightly_ provocative dress was doing to him right now, she’d think he was a sex-crazed pig. Or she’d take it as an invitation to further seduce him and he’d lose his mind fighting to resist her for her own good. He didn’t know which was worse.

“Are you sure?” Anne raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Because, you know, this is a date. You’re allowed to be attracted to me. I _want_ you to be attracted to me.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And surely you already know that I am.” 

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she didn’t want him to suppress his desire for her at all. But if she thought he was going to voluntarily open his mind and let her sense him slobbering all over her for the rest of the evening, she was sorely mistaken. That was _not_ what this night was supposed to be about.

“Well what’s wrong, then?” she asked. “Why are you shielded?”

Severus sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling, buying himself enough time to string together something plausible.

“All right,” he said at last, leaning in close to her and speaking quietly. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I noticed some people downstairs. People I thought I recognized.” He gave her a look and her eyes widened.

“Death Ea—?”

“I don’t know,” he interrupted. “But I thought it best to be cautious. I’m sorry, I know it intrudes on our evening a bit, but I’ll open my mind back up to you again when we’re safely out of here.” And her coat was safely back on.

“Let’s go see the exhibit,” he said, pulling her forward before she could respond.

* * *

“If you’re not familiar with muggle art,” Anne said, gesturing to the piece, “you might not get exactly what the artist’s going for with some of these.”

The exhibit was a collection of famous muggle pieces reimagined as magical art. In front of them, a huge canvas was divided into nine squares of clashing neon colour, each one with a copy of the same bedroom-eyed woman (Anne recognized her as the muggle actress Marilyn Monroe, but was unsure if Severus did). As the Marilyns crossed the dividing lines of the coloured sections, reaching an arm down to the square below to borrow lipstick or abandoning their own squares entirely to visit in another, their own colour palettes changed to contrast the squares they were entering.

“Actually, I know this one,” Severus said, his face twisting as if he smelled something bad. “Warhol, isn’t it? I’ll admit, I don’t care for the original either.”

Anne grinned at him. “I’m impressed. Are you muggle-born?”

“Half-blood.”

“Me too,” she said, and could have sworn she saw him exhale slightly in relief. Or perhaps not. He was so guarded, it was difficult to read his expressions.

As they moved through the gallery, Anne found herself looking at his face as much as she did the artwork, trying to puzzle out what was really going on with him. Even without being able to sense him, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d lied to her earlier. Why and about what, she hadn’t quite figured out yet. There was still so much she didn’t know about him yet, everything from the details of his secret mission against the dark forces to the little things that made him nervous or uncomfortable. He might have closed himself to her for a hundred reasons, driven by a hundred possible motivations. For all she knew, he was phobic of crowded, unfamiliar places and simply too embarrassed to admit it.

One thing she was almost certain about, however, was that no Death Eaters had been sighted that evening. 

To confirm this theory, Anne waited until they passed in front of a reimagined Frida Kahlo piece, in which the central figure (Frida, of course) stayed gazing back at the viewers while the background, setting, and sometimes even her own body morphed and changed around her in exquisite detail. There was a large crowd around this piece, watching and trying to catch the bits of symbolism and items of hidden meaning as they waxed and waned on the canvas.

Anne stopped them at a particularly conspicuous spot near the side of the piece. Wrapping both her arms around one of Severus’s, she leaned in against him, tilting her face up to his as she said softly: “I’m really glad you asked me here tonight.”

He didn’t pull back. In fact, he held her gaze a moment, a smile forming, and then flicked his eyes ever so briefly down to her lips and back up again. In that moment, his guard slipped and she felt a powerful urge to touch her coursing through him.

And then, plainly on the heels of that feeling, just milliseconds before he closed off to her again: guilt, shame, and the very specific breed of anxiety that comes with trying to maintain a lie.

She was off his arm in a flash. “You lied to me!”

Pushing her way through the crowd, she stormed toward the stairs to the foyer, annoyed to hear from the footsteps directly behind her that Severus, with his leg span and imposing presence, was having no trouble chasing after her. When she got to the edge of the stairs, he caught her wrist.

“Anne, please wait. I can explain.”

“You can _explain?”_ She whirled on him, yanking her arm back. “I should _let_ you try to explain. Watch you tangle yourself up in your lie like a dog on a rope. I’m not stupid, Severus. There’s no Death—” She bit her tongue just as he rushed forward to silence her, his hand raised as if he was planning to cover her mouth with it. She smacked it away.

Pointing with an angry flick of her chin, she led him back over to the side railing. “You won’t hold my hand if you think there might be a student nearby,” she hissed at him in a low voice. “If you really thought there was someone dangerous watching tonight, you wouldn’t let me stand within three feet of you. It’s the dress! Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s not…” Severus had his hand over his eyes and he didn’t need to open to her to convey his misery. “The dress is fine. It’s me. You don’t understand…”

“Then open to me.”

“No!” The hand dropped from his face and his eyes wandered out unseeing across the room, his mouth opening and closing slightly as he struggled to choose his words. “I know it’s important to you. I know you want me to keep open, but you have no idea how difficult it is sometimes, trying to keep my emotions in order for you.”

Anne gaped at him. “Keep them in _order?_ What does that even mean?”

“I have an ounce of self-control, Anne. I can have people in my head without parading out my most basic impulses for them.” His glance dropped fleetingly below her neckline. “Most of the time.”

She stared at him, heart sinking as she realized what he was saying. No wonder he always felt so strained around her! Every minute they spent together, half his mental energy was going to regulating his emotions. Sure, he’d stopped closing off his mind to her most of the time, but in a way he was still practicing Occlumency against her all the same.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do that for me,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’m empathic. I’m _used_ to feeling people’s emotions, all of them. I can handle all of yours too, if you’d trust me.”

“Right, I’m sure you’d love that.” He pulled his hand away and his voice turned cold and hard in a way she hadn’t heard from him in weeks. “A front-row seat in my head so you can watch me falling all over myself for you. Must be fun when you’re the one watching, but there’s not much dignity in it for me, is there?”

“Not if you won’t let it go both ways.” Anne sighed, shaking her head. “I’m _trying_ to put us on equal footing. I want you to feel how I feel about you too. If you’d just let me project to you—”

“Absolutely not.” Even as he said it, he stepped back further.

For the second time that evening, the stinging started in her eyes. She’d never been on a date with someone so repelled by her ability. Of the handful of partners she’d shared it with before, all of them, after an initial period of awkwardness, had come around quickly to it once they got a taste of its more pleasurable side. She’d shown Severus the ricochet sooner than she’d shown any of them, because she’d been so sure he was the kind of person who wouldn’t be consumed by it. And he wasn’t—in fact, he was the only person it ever sent running.

“If you don’t want to open to me,” Anne said, looking up to the ceiling to try to hide the shine of her eyes, “don’t open to me. If my empathic sense is so disgusting to you, fine—we’ll just both stay in our own heads.” Despite her best efforts, that last sentence was too much and a tear spilled out over her cheek. “But you didn’t have to lie to me.”

Severus’s harsh demeanor fell with her tear. He rushed towards her, lifting a comforting hand to rest on her arm and opening his mouth to mutter some manner of apology she didn’t care to hear right now.

“I’m leaving,” Anne said, pulling away from him and heading down the stairs.


	15. Deja Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why did you even bring me here?” Anne asked, wiping her eyes. “If you wanted to spend the night in a public place discussing academia while you try not to touch or look at me, we could have stayed at school. Is that all you want from me? All you’re ready to offer?”

_Well, this feels awfully familiar,_ Severus thought, berating himself as he ran down the crowded art museum steps behind Anne. _Chasing after the woman you care most about in the world to beg her forgiveness for something stupid you said to cover up your own pathetic insecurity? Yes, I do believe we’ve been here before._

It had taken him two hours to completely ruin the evening, just as it had taken him one word to destroy his friendship with Lily Evans. What a track record he had with women. His only hope was that his apologies had gained potency with time, or soon he’d be back to watching sadly from afar as the woman of his dreams fell in love with someone else.

 _That_ was absolutely not going to happen again, he swore to himself as he caught up to Anne at the cloak check. He had to fix this, no matter what. He would grovel, promise, traipse out his most intimate personal feelings for her to throw popcorn at—whatever it took to win her forgiveness before they set foot back in Hogwarts.

“Anne, I’m so sorry,” he said, hunched over her shoulder as she waited for the clerk to bring her coat. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’ll never lie to you ever again.”

She thanked the clerk, accepting her coat before turning her head back to scowl at him. “Sure you won’t, now that you know how easily I can catch you.” She punched one arm into its coat sleeve as she turned to leave. The clerk stared at Severus, one eyebrow raised, and he sneered at her as he strode off.

“I’m begging you,” he called as Anne stepped toward the spot where they’d apparated in. “Don’t let tonight end like this. Give me a chance to make it right.” He opened his mind to her, hoping his desperation would reach her through the crowd of emotions around them.

And it must have, because suddenly she stopped and whirled back to face him, her eyes filling with tears again. For a fleeting second, he thought he’d won her over.

Then her face twisted into accusation. “You’re opening to me _now?_ When my coat’s back on and you’re scared and sorry? That’s so manipulative, Sev.”

That last word hit him like a hammer to the solar plexus, knocking him speechless. In this moment, right when he was about to lose her, she called him by the name only Lily had ever used for him. A nauseating wave of deja vu crashed over him.

“Why did you even bring me here?” Anne asked, wiping her eyes. “If you wanted to spend the night in a public place discussing academia while you try not to touch or look at me, we could have stayed at school. Is that all you want from me? All you’re ready to offer?”

“No,” he said, and the truth of it shone through him like a guiding light. Suddenly he knew what he needed to do. “Please, let me take you somewhere else. Somewhere I’ve never taken anyone before. Somewhere private.”

She watched him a moment, crossing her arms over her chest as she considered. All told, it was probably less than five seconds, but to Severus it felt like hours.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But on one condition—you let me open to you.”

Severus fought to suppress the blatant terror those words shot through him as he remembered the night she’d first told him she was empathic. The ricochet, how it had taken just the slightest of touches to ignite it between them once her mind was opened to him. The immense willpower it had required to pull back from her. And now tonight, with that dress and (if all went well) her surely expecting more physical contact from him than the slight graze of their lips… He absolutely couldn’t let things go too far too soon, but keeping his hands off her under these conditions was going to be slow torture.

“Would you stop!” she said, swatting the side of his arm. “It doesn’t have to be like that every time. I’m not some man-eating siren, I can control it!”

Severus swallowed hard. He had his doubts about Anne’s self-control in these matters, but at the end of the day it wasn’t _her_ giving in to temptation that made him nervous. She still didn’t have the barest grasp of Occlumency or even the full perspective on what she was getting into—it was _his_ responsibility to keep things from going too far until she did.

It was going to be a Herculean feat of self-discipline to get through this, but if the only alternative was watching her walk away right now, what choice did he have?

“All right,” Severus said, stepping forward to take her hand. “If I let you project, will you come with me?”

She let him take her hand, nodding but not smiling. Obviously, he was still treading water offshore of her forgiveness.

 _Don’t worry,_ said a mocking voice inside him. _There’s still plenty of opportunity for you to finish ruining this. Perhaps there’s a slur for empaths you could call her. Really eviscerate your chance with her, just like Lily._

Pushing the thought from his head, he tightened his grip on Anne’s hand and they apparated.

* * *

“You took me _back to Hogwarts?”_ Anne exclaimed when she saw the castle lights glowing in the distance. 

She exhaled in an exasperated half-sigh half-laugh. It was just as well that he’d decided to cut his losses and end the night after all. This entire evening had been a disaster and her feet were starting to hurt—if she’d known she’d be spending so much of the night storming away from her date, she wouldn’t have worn heels.

“We’re not going back yet,” Severus said, guiding her across the rocky ledge that bordered this side of the Black Lake. Now that she had a moment to orient herself, Anne saw that they were actually much farther down the road towards Hogsmeade than where they’d left, heading in the direction of the lake’s shoreline.

She was feeling charitable, so as he held his hand steady for her to descend from a shelf in the rock, she gave him some warning: “I’m opening to you now.”

“Wait!” he barked reflexively, then quickly added: “Can you at least wait until we get where we’re going? It takes a bit of concentration, navigating the way.”

Rolling her eyes, she repeated: “I’m opening to you now.” She hadn’t intended annoyance to be the first emotion she fully projected to him tonight, but that’s what he was getting. She felt him tense up like a fist as he planted his feet, bracing himself. 

Then, a moment later, a guarded relief breathed through him. “That’s it?” he asked her, looking his own body over as if he might have grown extra legs.

“Merlin’s beard, Severus,” Anne huffed. “I know my attraction terrifies you, but did you really think that’s what I was going to project to you right now?”

“No, I mean…” He stammered and she knew he was desperately trying not to say the wrong thing. “I thought it would be more intense. Any feeling. I wasn’t expecting…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Your attraction does not _terrify_ me. I’m not some puritanical prig, frightened by a woman’s attention. Or her dress, for that matter.” A note of indignance had crept into his voice, but it fell away quickly as he muttered: “It’s me I’m worried about.”

A torrent of shame, despair and self-reproach washed through him, making Anne’s heart ache. Finally, she was able to catch a deep enough glimpse of him to understand that the fears she’d perceived about her ability had little to do with her at all. He wasn’t trying to protect himself from her—he was trying to protect her from _him_ , and the impossibly high standards he set for himself had become a barrier between them.

She squeezed his hand as they walked, letting the softening of her feelings transmit across the single, tiny thread she’d strung between them. As the sensation reached him, she felt the weight take flight from him like a flock of crows. He turned his head to her suddenly, eyebrows raised in disbelief: he knew that she had forgiven him.

“You see,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “It’s better this way. Avoids a lot of unnecessary miscommunication.”

He nodded, his mouth pressed tightly closed, too overwhelmed with relief to risk speaking. He didn’t need to.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, weaving their way down the cliff, until he stopped and said, “Your feet are getting sore. I’m sorry, I hadn’t considered that.”

“You felt that through the projection?” she asked, gaping. Empaths could only infer physical sensations from their corresponding emotions, and she was projecting to him at such a low strength she’d be impressed if he could sense even the sharpness of a stubbed toe.

“No, I can see you starting to limp.”

Anne laughed at herself. “Oh. Of course.”

“Here,” he said, turning to face her. A second later he was wrapping his arms tightly around her and it was her turn to blush over the feelings this sudden contact was stirring up in her. “Hold on tightly. I’ve never done this with another person before.”

In an instant, the rush of excitement at being unexpectedly enveloped by him was overpowered by the adrenaline rush of sheer terror as the ground whirled away from her feet. She found herself careening through the air at neck-breaking speed. Through the clouds of thick black smoke whirling around them, she caught alarming glimpses of the lake above them, the night sky at their feet, the jagged rock ledge circling them round and round. Anne clamped her eyes shut, willing herself not to scream. If not for the current of self-assurance buzzing across to her from Severus, she would have.

Seconds of eternity later, her feet landed on blessedly solid ground and she dared reopen her eyes. They were down on the pebbly shoreline of the Black Lake, in a tiny inlet with steep rock-cliff at their back and a lagoon of moonlit lily pads and white water lilies spread before them.

“You couldn’t warn me?” she shouted at Severus, smacking the side of his arm, but already the shock of the experience was wearing off and she found herself starting to laugh. What a ride—her heart was racing like a drumroll. “Merlin’s short and curlies,” she gasped, unbuttoning her coat as she put a hand to his shoulder to steady herself, “what on earth _was_ that?”

“One of the perks of dating a former Death Eater,” Severus said, and to her surprise he gave a small sniff of a laugh as well, holding her by the upper arms. “Are you all right?”

“Definitely. I’m sure my stomach will drop back down out of my throat any second now.”

That won her a clearer roll of laughter from him. Though her own heart was still pounding, she was glad he was finally starting to relax for the first time that evening.

“What is this place?” she asked, her knees steadying enough to carry her to the water’s edge for a clearer view.

“I come out here to think sometimes. I think, perhaps, it’s my favourite place.”

“It’s beautiful.” After admiring the pearly water flowers in the marsh to her right, Anne bent to pick up a flat stone and send it skipping out into the rippling expanse of clear lake to her left. “Must be a bit of a trek to get to, though. I assume you don’t do that… flying Death Eater thing during the day when people might see you.”

“You assume correctly.” He walked to stand beside her on the shoreline. “But it’s easy to get here by broom.”

Anne whirled to face him. “You can ride a broom?”

“Oh yes. I’ve even refereed a Quidditch game or two, believe it or not.”

She burst out laughing in astonishment. “And here I thought _I_ was the well-rounded one in this relationship.” 

* * *

Severus’s heart leapt at that word: relationship. 

The evening had veered up and down so sharply it was disorienting, but for the moment, miraculously, everything was going well. Anne had forgiven him—it had happened so fast, he wasn’t even sure how or why. She’d opened to him, and not only had it not destroyed the evening, it had actually made things easier. To his surprise and enormous relief, he could stand near her and touch her and have an adult conversation while her coat was open without turning into a drooling wolf. And she’d just said they were in a relationship.

“Will you take me flying sometime?” Anne asked, giving him a flirty smile as she stepped in close to bump her shoulder against his arm. “On a broomstick, preferably.”

“Of course. Any time.”

And now they were making plans for another date. Good Godric, had he actually managed to salvage this wreck of a night?

The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when Anne turned herself to face him, her eyes suddenly serious as they looked up into his and the feelings she was projecting to him starting to smoulder like embers. Even without the empathic link, it was pretty obvious she wanted him to kiss her right now. And after all his hysterics tonight over her dress and her ability, he knew he’d better bloody well do it before she sensed any nervousness.

He couldn’t afford a second of hesitation to catch his breath, so he forced himself forward, sliding one hand around the back of her neck as he pressed his mouth to hers.

She pulled back after a single kiss, holding him close to her by the edge of his cloak. “Hey,” she said, frowning, and then grinning to show she was teasing. “Take it _slow_ , okay?” 

Her own nervous excitement pulsed across the projection and he found himself responding to it with rallied confidence. More than that, as he looked down at that coy smile of hers that had been barging uninvited into his thoughts for weeks, he found that he did, in fact, want very badly to kiss her right now of his own volition.

He moved his face back towards hers, slowly, riding the surge of her anticipation like a chemical high. This time, when their mouths touched, he was calm enough to feel her presence clearly through the projection, responding to his touch and his own reactions with varying levels of pleasure. It wasn’t overwhelming; it didn’t build momentum and spiral out of control, like with the ricochet. In fact, he realized after a minute of experimenting—kissing her first softly, then deeply; nipping lightly at her bottom lip—the projection was like a trail of breadcrumbs, guiding him to the kinds of sensations she enjoyed. When he stumbled across one, the reward was a bloom of pleasure across the empathic connection between them—her pleasure, which he’d given her and was experiencing with her. He felt her doing the same back to him.

Anne pulled back from him, breathing heavy. “Good griffins, Sev, I didn’t think you’d pick that up so quickly.”

He broke out in a full smile then, feeling the strange pull of facial muscles he so rarely used. He knew he was pleasing her, but the validation of hearing her say it out loud made him feel like he could take on a Hungarian Horntail empty-handed.

“Can I open to you a bit more?” she asked.

“Oh… Anne, I don’t know…”

“Just a little bit.” She bit her lip, her eyes on his mouth. “I won’t let it get out of control.”

At that moment, he was feeling so good he’d probably have let her paint a nude mural of him across the floor of the Quad if she’d asked. “All right,” he said. “Just a little bit.”

He leaned back in to kiss her, taking up again the pace and pressures he knew she liked, but this time the rewards for his efforts had strengthened from blooms of pleasure to small jolts that left him feeling slightly light-headed. He was vaguely aware that the calculated control of his first experimental kisses was slipping from him, his mouth seeming to move on its own as his mind grew thick and foggy from all the Anne in it. 

At the same time, his hands were beginning to itch with desires of their own. The one holding Anne’s neck forked its fingers up into her hair, and when the other slid itself inside her coat to her waist, the reward of her excitement was almost enough to make him moan. Her hands were under his cloak as well, muted by layers of shirt fabric, but for him, her backless dress was a playground of smooth, open skin. He slid his palm slowly across it, then down to where the fabric edged at small of her back. Planting his hand there, he pulled her in against him, the way she craved. Visions of the curves of her body in thin, clinging fabric flooded his mind and his hands burned. Anne moaned, feeling these urges course through him and sending back shivers of urgent encouragement as his hand continued its migration. She pushed her hips into him. 

“Enough,” Severus gasped, pulling back. It wasn’t the impossible feat of self-control he’d feared, but it certainly wasn’t easy. “That was…” Incredible. “But we should stop now.”

* * *

 _Bless the warlock’s hairy heart,_ Anne thought, panting as she dropped the shoulders of her coat down to her elbows to cool herself. _This man is full of surprises._

After all of Severus’s fretting over her empathic ability, the last thing in the world she’d expected is that he’d be such a natural at learning to use it. She’d had partners who needed a month to attain the level of skill he’d picked up in mere minutes. The way he’d gone so slowly, sensing what she wanted but making her wait. The way he’d pulled her into him, answering her wish before she even realized she'd formed it. _If he's this good at just kissing,_ she thought, pulse racing, _what will it be like when we—_

“Would you please _try_ to calm down?” Severus snapped, stepping back further with his eyes glued to the ground. “Or at least dim yourself so I can?”

She burst out laughing, then nodded and lowered the projection of herself back down to where it had been earlier. It took him a minute before he was ready to look back up at her.

“That was fun,” she said, grinning.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, straightening the clasp of his cloak back into place, “because until you learn a bit of Occlumency, that’s basically all we can do.”

The smile dropped from Anne’s face. “What? Really?”

His eyebrows raised. “I thought you understood that. Until you learn to guard your mind, it isn’t safe for us to be together—you’re too good at inferring my secrets and I can't even begin to explain about the risks you're taking on. I probably shouldn’t have even asked you out at all until you’ve had a few lessons.”

Anne didn’t bother keeping the disappointment off her face—he could sense it anyway. She’d known he wanted her to learn Occlumency, but until this moment she hadn’t realized it was a _requirement_ she needed to fulfill to be with him. Talk about pressure!

Then again, she was Anne Azalea Swanson. If learning Occlumency was what it took to make what they just did (and more) happen on a regular basis, she’d make herself the most dedicated Occlumency student the world had ever seen. Give her a week of Occlumency bootcamp and she’d achieve whatever mastery was necessary to have him in her bed, sliding his hands—

“Anne, _please.”_ Severus clamped his eyes shut.

“When can I start?” she asked, putting her hands to her hips. “Occlumency lessons.”

He shrugged. “Whenever you want to. It’s the weekend, so—”

“How about tomorrow?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes, tomorrow’s fine. After dinner.”

“Your place?” she asked, grinning as she stepped closer to him.

He shot her a warning look. “My _classroom.”_

“Maybe I’ll wear some more of my muggle clothes, now that I know how much you like them.” She nudged his foot with her shoe.

Severus groaned. “I’m begging you—please take this seriously. Promise me, when you come tomorrow, no distractions. No… temptation.” His eyes flicked inside her open coat.

Anne shifted her hips to give him a better view. “I promise I’ll take it seriously,” is all she said.


	16. Occlumency 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus took another step back, shaking his head in dismay. Anne was very bright and used to succeeding at whatever she invested herself in, but Occlumency wasn’t simply a matter of theory and application. It required strict discipline, yes, but also emotional detachment.
> 
> “Yes, let’s begin,” he said, gathering his concentration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains some scenes of an emotionally abusive relationship (stalking, controlling, jealousy, etc). Nothing graphic and a person outside the relationship is physically present in all scenes, if that helps.

So much bliss couldn’t be contained in a single evening: it seeped over into the following day, floating Severus’s head full of pleasant memories and putting him in a rare, fine mood. He managed a curt but civil interaction with Mad-Eye Moody on the way to breakfast and even let lie a perfectly good opportunity to belittle Neville Longbottom as he passed the bungling little lump on the viaduct.

Severus’s contentment was so subtle a flavour that only one person, who had known him since he was a student, gave any sign of tasting a difference.

When he stepped in to resolve a minor student incident in the Quad that afternoon, McGonagall was right there on his heels, ready to dispute the charges. Severus wasn’t going to get away with doling out undue punishments on her house _this_ time. She’d witnessed the whole thing from the balcony and come rushing down, just in time.

* * *

Clasping her hands solidly in front of her, Minerva straightened up into as much height as she could muster and prepared to launch into all the reasons why ten points was a ridiculous penalty for a bit of magical mischief—sticking someone’s feet to the ground with a steadfast hex would hardly cause any lasting harm—really, it was quite impressive a first-year student could even manage such a spell—and would Severus have batted an eye if the student were in Slytherin?—but she had barely opened her mouth before the clash concluded.

“Very well,” Severus said, throwing one last scowl to the offending hex-caster. “Since it’s a matter in your house, Minerva, I’ll trust to your discretion.” And without another word, he turned and marched off toward the grand staircase tower.

She gaped after him. It took a good deal to raise the witch’s temper, but Severus’s occasional moments of pettiness in the matter of their rival houses sometimes managed it. And yet, for him to concede the argument so reasonably, without even hearing her defense… Was she herself the one being petty this time? Should she be taking this incident more seriously?

In a daze, she turned to her own student and heard herself say: “Five points from Gryffindor.”

* * *

Severus’s mellowness promptly soured later that Saturday afternoon, as his weekly classroom inventory turned up, again, one fewer bottle of polyjuice potion than it should have. Though he was meticulous in his counting, occasional errors in inventory were within the realm of possibility. But two errors in one semester? With the same potion? Inconceivable.

Indignation pooled into his jaw and hardened there. One of his students was definitely stealing from him. A minor inventory would not suffice, this week. 

Exhaling sharply through his long nose, Severus set to work emptying his cabinets, pulling out every single vial and vessel and lining them up on the desks in groups to be counted.

A furious concentration took root in him, causing him not to notice the shadows in the room shifting and lengthening over the hours. It didn’t break or waver until Anne appeared in his doorway, ready for their lesson.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, eyes widening at the state of the room. “You missed dinner.”

Severus glanced at the hourglass on the shelf above his desk. He hadn’t realized it was _that_ late. “I wasn’t hungry,” he said before he realized he was lying again. “I mean, I got distracted. Inventory discrepancy. Quite aggravating.”

“Yeah, I picked that up.” Anne gave him a smile that said plainly she was teasing him, but softened any sting out of it. Crossing the room to him, she lifted a small box out of her robes. “I brought you a bit of food from the Hall.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He accepted the box and set it down on his desk; it would likely go uneaten, but the affection of the gesture was nourishing. “And thank you for respecting my request for no distractions,” he added, motioning to the long black teacher’s robes she’d chosen to wear this evening.

“Gosh, Sev, I really meant to…” Even before she started grinning, she opened herself slightly to him and a lick of mischief wriggled across the projection, alerting him. “It’s just so warm in here…”

Severus sighed as she began unfastening her robe. Of course. After the way she'd teased him by flaunting herself at the end of their date, how could he have expected otherwise?

Off came the robe and underneath she wore a white t-shirt and fitted jeans: more muggle clothes, as promised. The outfit was a strategic choice—Anne’s impish smile and flickers of excitement confirmed that—disguising its appeal in casualness. One good look at that thin cotton shirt would surely yield the exact colour and contours of her underwear, but damn the dragons if he was going to take it. Or let himself predict what those jeans might look like in full rotation.

Severus reached to open a window, letting in a gust of cold autumn air. “Shall we begin?”

“I’m ready,” she said, taking a seat on the desk—not her usual one, but Severus’s desk. Apparently their developing relationship afforded her this promotion. “Are you going to grill me with questions, like with your students?” 

It sounded like a joke, but a buzz of anticipation told him it wasn’t. “You _want_ me to,” he stated, eyebrows raising.

Anne shrugged. “I’ve been studying. Guess I just want an excuse to show off.”

“All right.” Severus folded his arms across his chest. “Tonight we begin our first lesson in Occlumency. Which is…?”

“The practice of magically closing one’s mind,” Anne recited promptly, “against attempts by a Legilimens to perceive or influence one’s thoughts and emotions.”

Severus nodded. “And how is this done?”

“At a basic level, it involves emptying one’s mind of any thoughts and emotions that could be perceived by an intruder. However, an accomplished Occlumens like you—” Here she smiled at him and her admiration hummed along the projection like a plucked guitar string. “—can also present a false set of thoughts and emotions to disguise their resistance to the Legilimens.”

He side-stepped her flattery with another question: “And who developed the practice of occlumency?”

“It’s an ancient practice, known since medieval times.” She twisted the length of her hair. _“Professor.”_

She was trying to make this sexy. Worse, she was succeeding. And she knew it.

Clearing his throat, Severus straightened himself. “Anne, if you’re not going to take this seriously, you’re never going to be able to block me out.”

“I just answered every question,” she said defensively. “How can you say I’m not taking this seriously?”

“You’re flirting with me.”

She reached her foot out and hooked it behind his knee, giving him a playful tug forward. “Occlumens don’t flirt?”

Severus groaned, stepping back out of her reach. “Beginners certainly shouldn’t. I hope you realize that by… stirring up these feelings, you’re only inviting thoughts of that nature into your mind for me to perceive. Do you understand?”

“All right, sorry.” She didn’t roll her eyes, but he felt a faint hint of insolence from her. “Let’s just give this a try, okay?” No butterflies in her stomach, no nervousness. 

Severus took another step back, shaking his head in dismay. She was very smart and used to succeeding at whatever she invested herself in, but Occlumency wasn’t simply a matter of theory and application. It required strict discipline, yes, but also emotional detachment.

“Yes, let’s begin,” he said, gathering his concentration.

Anne sat up straighter on the desk, projecting nothing but confidence. Good Godric, what was he going to find in her head? A replay of some choice moments from last night, almost certainly, and who knows what other intimacies. Hopefully she’d have enough modesty to at least _act_ embarrassed by them.

“Prepare yourself,” he said. “I will now attempt to penetrate your mind.”

“Wait!” Anne cried suddenly, but he didn’t. The Dark Lord wouldn’t wait, either.

* * *

“Wait!” 

In a panic, Anne threw up her hand to halt him, but already she could feel Severus forcing his way into her mind. She wasn’t ready—a lecture on flirting, only to throw out “penetrate” the second before rushing her? How was _that_ fair?

Scrambling, Anne tried to collect herself, but she could feel him moving around her mind. She’d recognize his presence anywhere, especially after last night, but now he was cold and distant. Predatory even, like an animal stalking from the shadows.

The memory of their kiss the night before swam straight into her consciousness. She’d replayed it in her head a hundred times today, and here it was once more: her pressed against him, him kissing her deeply, with increasing speed and intensity, as his hand wandered down to the small of her back. He’d thought something then, a desire to touch her further, an image of her that excited him, and the emotion sent pure electricity shivering through her body. He’d felt it too, her response, and it echoed back faintly in him a split second before he pulled away. But here, in her head, he didn’t stop. He kept kissing her and his hand...

No! She was proving his point and making a complete fool of herself! _Get a grip, Anne._

Gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached, Anne shoved the memory away. Just as it shifted off the surface of her mind, another memory came speeding in to take its place. 

Oh griffins, _no,_ was this last night too? It could have been one of many nights.

She was in her bed, the lighting dimmed to just candlelight, and she was holding the sensovial Severus had given her. She held it pressed against her chest, shifting through the emotions she felt from it: affection, longing, desire. The feeling of having him so close to her, wanting her, sent tingles shooting up the back of her legs.

No no no _no,_ she didn’t want him to see this! With the mental equivalent of slamming a door, she flung the image from her mind, mortified. As it left, she heard herself moan once, faintly.

What a nightmare. Why had she assumed she would be able to protect herself against an expert on her first try? The sudden feeling of powerlessness was overwhelming. She hadn’t felt this out of control in months. Not since…

Shouting filled her head. It was a man’s voice, then her own. The setting solidified in front of her: nighttime, her parent’s driveway in the suburbs of Ottawa. Grey melting snow piled high on either side and oozing tiny rivers down the pavement into the gutters. This must be mid spring, after she’d moved back home.

“Just leave me alone!” she heard herself scream at a familiar silhouette on the street. It was dark out, except for the streetlamps, and all she could see were shadows. “It’s over. Stay away from me!”

The porch light went on behind her and the front door opened.

“Dad, no. It’s fine, please. Just let me handle this.” She was so scared then. She was scared all the time, but now she was scared to get her family involved. Her father had a bad temper, but he was a muggle and not as young as he used to be. She didn’t want him to get hurt.

Swept up in the emotion of the memory, Anne didn’t have the concentration to push it away, but it faded on its own as Severus pulled himself back from her. 

“I said _wait!”_ she shouted as the fog cleared and they were back in the classroom, her on the desk and him standing in front of her. He watched her, his face devoid of emotion like a model Occlumens.

“An Occlumens must be prepared at all times,” he said coldly, though she did sense a slight sheepishness about what he’d just seen. “It’s no use knowing how to protect your mind under ideal conditions only.”

“But I’m just starting! If you’d given me a minute, I could have blocked some of that.” The room was freezing now, but a combination of anger and humiliation heated her face. “You can’t just throw me in the deep end and expect me to learn how to swim.”

Severus gave a slight shrug. “I’m afraid this is where our teaching philosophies differ.”

“You just rushed at me and left me to figure it out. Give me a chance here!”

“Very well, here’s your next chance.”

“No, wait! _I’m still not ready!”_

She was no more prepared than the first time—if anything, her mounting frustration made it harder to concentrate. In a split second, he was in her head again and another memory was rapidly forming.

There were trees on her left. They were difficult to see, partly because they were speeding by like a flickering film reel, but mostly because her eyes were hot and blurry. She was running. Crying and running. Her lungs burned and her pulsed race and all she could feel was anger so powerful it was like a beast pounding against the walls of her rib cage, trying to get out.

She reached the pebbly edge of a lake (the Black Lake here at Hogwarts, she recognized), scooped her hand down for the biggest rock she could find and hurled it into the water. Then another. Another. She launched them so hard that with each throw she knocked herself off balance and stumbled clumsily about the shoreline. All the while, she was panting and grunting, her teeth gritted together as hot tears ran down her cheeks. 

It wasn’t cute.

This was the afternoon Severus had kicked her out of his Potions class. She’d tried to look strong and unwounded in front of him, but in truth she was crushed at how her empathic ability seemed to offend him. And now all he had to do was put two and two together (or recognize the outfit she’d worn that day), and he’d see what a pathetic mess she’d been over him. 

She hurled the memory aside, but the indignity of it all only made her spiral more and more out of control. A new memory quickly began to form.

“You went through my notebook?” It was her own voice, just as outraged as she currently felt. “That’s personal!”

“Well what am I supposed to do?”

Oh dear, she recognized that voice. From the haze of her mind, a snowy school campus appeared behind a tall, freckled man with a square jaw. It was a man she hadn’t intended to further discuss with Severus so early in the relationship.

“You never said you were going out,” Paul said, following behind her as she headed toward the 9 a.m. class she had to teach. “And then you didn’t answer your phone.” 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you where I’m going at every hour of the day. And I shouldn’t have to tell you it’s not okay to snoop through my things.”

“And I suppose you shouldn’t have to tell me who Brian is?” Here his tone turned accusatory and he reached forward to pull her back by the wrist.

“What?” She yanked her hand out of his grasp.

“Brian,” he repeated, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “As in, dinner at eight, Brian. In your notebook.”

She shot him a disgusted look. “Brian’s a friend.” In fact, Brian was her brother, but what did it matter? She was allowed to have dinners with Brians without him pitching a fit. She whirled from him, heading toward the school.

He called after her: “And did you open yourself to him? This friend of yours you take on romantic dinner dates?” His voice carried across the campus field and a group of nearby students paused their snowball fight to gape at them.

She spun back toward him, hissing: “Merlin’s beard, would you lower your voice? Just go. I’ll call you after class and we can talk.” It would be a break-up talk; they’d only dated a few weeks, but by that point she had already had just about enough of Paul and his jealousy.

“Oh, sure,” he said, just as loud as ever. “Call me up so you don’t have to project. So you can lie to me.” A cocktail of shock and morbid curiosity spilled over from the group of students. “Open and tell me the truth—did you try it with him? Your ricochet? Your dirty little empath—”

 _“Paul!”_ Dropping her bag in the snow, she rushed to stop him before he could say another word. 

She felt something from him in that moment that, looking back in hindsight, should have alarmed her more than it had: power. He had something over her—he knew the secret of her empathic ability—and he could use it however he liked.

* * *

“That’s private!” Anne snapped in a wavering whisper as angry tears welled in her eyes. “You have no right!”

 _How is it possible,_ Severus asked himself, _that this experience has turned out to be even more awkward and shameful for me than it is for her?_

The freckled ape Anne was yelling at—Paul, apparently—twisted his expression into something between a smirk and a sneer. He opened his mouth, surely to offer up some other treasure of gallantry, but Anne cut him off.

“And you have no right to show up at my work accusing me of anything, either,” she said. “I’m not cheating on you, for Merlin’s sake. You want to talk _trust?_ You’re the one who went snooping through my private things!”

Her words lodged themselves in Severus's ribs like barbs. Here was the woman he’d had _one_ date with, reliving a fight she’d had with her controlling stalker ex-boyfriend who invaded her privacy. And he was watching it. Because he was invading her privacy. Despite her very clear instructions to wait.

This was a disaster.

It was also, it pained him to admit, the bleakest attempt at Occlumency he had ever seen.

As the couple started screaming at each other in earnest in the middle of the snowy courtyard, Severus pulled himself back out of the flames of rage that currently composed Anne’s mind. Daylight faded into a grey mist and he was back standing in his classroom. Anne, still perched on his desk, took a moment longer to return to herself, but he could still feel a steady rush of anger from the projection she’d left open to him.

She came back to herself in a jolt, as though she’d been startled awake. “Enough!” she shouted, shoving herself off the desk to a stand. “This isn’t a lesson, it’s an ambush. Albus Dumbledore himself couldn’t learn Occlumency this way.”

He stood there a long moment, choosing his words carefully. Certainly, he couldn’t tell her that every Occlumens he knew—including Albus—had, in fact, learned the skill under quite similar circumstances. Or posit that perhaps her empathic sense made it more difficult for her to filter her emotions.

“I may have let that go on a bit longer than I should have,” he said finally, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “My apologies.”

Shivering, she reached for her teaching robe and pulled it back on in a huff. “Well, I guess now you’ve met my ex.”

“I never intended to make you feel like that,” he said, faltering. “Like you did with him. Violated. Which is to say, rather, I did—Legilimency is, by its nature, an invasive act, but…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I hadn’t considered that your history might complicate things. Perhaps this was a mistake.” Indeed, perhaps a huge mistake that would get them both killed.

“Oh, stop it,” Anne said, marching up to him. “The only mistake is this ridiculous sink-or-swim approach of yours. Obviously any personal traumas are going to come flooding back during an onslaught like that.”

In any other situation, Severus would have argued. However, her attempts to block him had been dishearteningly dismal and the scenes she’d treated him to made him feel at best like a pervert peeking in her window and at worst like… Well, like her monstrous ex-boyfriend. 

Given the circumstances, he wasn’t keen to continue with his usual methods. “What do you suggest?”

“Baby steps. Let me start with something easy.”

“Easy.” His heart sank. “Easy Occlumency?”

“Exactly.” Throwing her shoulders back, Anne strode back to his desk and resumed her seat. Whatever discouragement she was inevitably sensing from him, it seemed to have no effect on her confidence. “This time, let me make sure I’m prepared. _I_ say when you come at me. And if I can’t block you, pull out when the second memory forms and let me try again from the start.” She closed her eyes and began to inhale and exhale deeply.

For a full minute, Severus stood there and watched her breathe, all the while doubting that this was ever going to work—and even if it did, to what use? Did she think her empathic sense would give her enough advance warning that she could do a full meditation before every Legilimens’ attempt? It was ridiculous.

He was still stewing over the idea when Anne said, “All right, launch the invasion _.”_ He did.

From the first second he was inside her mind, he knew she was going to fail again. There was simply too much emotion here. It was a willful, empowered feeling—a refreshing change after all the anger and embarrassment—but a feeling nonetheless.

“Would you give it up already? If you don’t have it by now, you’re not going to get it.”

The room was as dimly lit as Severus’s classroom, but far larger, expanding out in all directions with the spines of books lining the walls. A library. A short, blond-haired young woman leaned against one of the desks and behind her, seated hunched over a book, was a slightly rounder-faced Anne with her hair cut short. She looked scarcely older than the students at Hogwarts.

“I’ve still got six hours until the test,” Anne said, not looking up from her book. “I’ll get it.”

Her blond friend sighed, drooping her shoulders. “It’s not that important—you’re awful with numbers and you’re never going to use Arithmancy anyway. I don’t even know why you took it.”

“Well I did.” Anne dropped her hands down on the book and looked up. “And if I mess up this test, it’ll bring down my whole average. Look, just go to bed. I’ve only got one more major concept to figure out—”

The scene faded out of view, but a new one was quickly forming in its place. The air hung thick with determination like barometric pressure.

“Stop trying to help me!” a child’s voice cried. “I can do it on my own!”

Severus pulled out of Anne’s mind and back to the classroom.

Coming back to herself, Anne let out a string of curse words under her breath that would have set Merlin himself blushing. “I really thought I was going to get it that time.”

“You’re still not clearing your mind,” Severus pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re just replacing one emotion with another. You need to disassociate. Make yourself detached, distant. Cold.” Even as he said the words, his hope further dwindled. It was like a list of words to describe everything Anne wasn’t. He loved that about her—but what if it made learning Occlumency impossible? “Perhaps there’s an alternative technique we can try. I’ll look into it. Shall we call it a night?” He glanced around at the mess of potions still occupying most of the desk space in the room, suddenly wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed.

“No, please,” Anne said. “I want to keep going.” Her features sank into sadness, and he knew all his doubting was coming through to her loud and clear. “Please, don’t give up on me. I can get this.”

Severus sighed, shrugged. “All right. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Anne took a deep breath and shook out her arms. “Detached. Cold.”

After a few more breaths, she called him in again, but what she had interpreted as detached and cold turned out, for Anne, to be grief—a memory of her grandmother’s funeral.

At Anne’s insistence, they stayed there in the classroom late into the evening, trying and failing over and over again. Her confidence dipped only slightly over that time, but a grave worry had begun to build its nest in Severus. With each attempt, he found her determination more and more admirable and attractive, yet as the hours went by it became increasingly difficult to believe that she would ever learn to detach enough to shield her mind.

And if Anne couldn’t learn to use Occlumency, they had a serious problem.


	17. Sparks from the Goblet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sparks from the Goblet. “Harry Potter!” Terror from Severus._  
>    
> Terror from Severus. 
> 
> Anne sat up suddenly in bed, straining her senses.
> 
> He was here. Severus was here. She recognized the feel of him somewhere at the very edge of her perception, toiling over some problem that frightened him. In the library below, maybe? But it was barely morning and the library didn’t open until after breakfast on Sundays.

The Great Hall swelled with murmurs as the Goblet of Fire began to hiss and spark once more. Sitting onstage at the ceremonial staff table, Anne put her fingers to her temples; the sudden surge of curiosity and alarm from hundreds of nearby people all at once was overwhelming, like a painfully loud noise.

Noticing the chatter in the room, Albus paused in his speech and turned back, gaping. A fourth name burst forth from the Goblet. He caught it in midair as it fluttered down.

_“Harry Potter!”_

Chaos erupted: frenzy and fever from the Gryffindors, outrage from the Slytherins, panic from the staff. White-hot fury bled with terror from where Severus sat at the far end of the table. Clenching her eyes shut, Anne tried not to gasp at the sensations rushing at her from all sides.

When she opened her eyes, she was in her bedroom. The white walls glowed pink from the first hints of dawn through her large window.

A dream. Just a dream about what had happened at the feast last night. Sighing, Anne rolled to put the eastern sky at her back and tried to return to sleep.

 _“Harry Potter!”_

Under her eyelids, the scene played out again. Why was she even thinking about this? A clever kid snuck his name in the tournament as an extra candidate. So what? Sure, it had been overwhelming in the moment, but many situations were overwhelming for empaths. 

_“Harry Potter!”_ _The white skin around Severus’s dark eyes pulled taut as he searched the crowd._

Severus. Maybe that’s what she was really thinking about. Severus looking worried. It’s how he’d looked all week, at their Occlumency lessons (they’d had two more since their first lesson last Saturday).

To say the lessons weren’t going well would be an understatement. More accurately, the lessons were soul-crushing failure parades stomping across her ever-thinning confidence in rusty cleats. Worse, they simply weren’t working. In the dozens of times Severus had entered her mind this week, she’d shown him an onslaught of embarrassing moments, several childhood memories, a handful of sexual encounters, one near death experience and countless other seemingly random incidents. But the number of times she’d been able to detach enough to successfully block him out? 

Zero. Not one single time. She was a total and utter failure.

Groaning, Anne turned on her other side and pulled a pillow over her head.

_Sparks from the Goblet. “Harry Potter!” Terror from Severus._

Terror from Severus. 

Anne sat up suddenly in bed, straining her senses.

He was here. Severus was here. She recognized the feel of him somewhere at the very edge of her perception, toiling over some problem that frightened him. In the library below, maybe? But it was barely morning and the library didn’t open until after breakfast on Sundays.

Closing her eyes, she strained again. It was definitely him.

Anne rolled out of bed and rushed to get dressed.

* * *

In an act of dazzling hubristic stupidity, James Potter’s arrogant, lying brat son had entered his own name as a fourth contestant in the Goblet of Fire. That was the simplest explanation, and the most plausible.

Assuming, of course, that Severus could figure out _how._

Blinking moisture back into his stinging eyes, he closed the heavy volume he’d been reading and reached for the next book on his stack. He opened to the index and began scanning for… Oh, who knows what anymore? He’d been at this all night, scouring the library’s restricted section for anything that might explain how a fourteen-year-old could have crossed the age line and bewitched the Goblet of Fire to announce four contestants; if Potter had done it, he must have learned how from one of these books (doubtlessly via his less incompetent friend Granger).

So far, the library had yielded nothing to support Severus’s theory, but the alternative possibility—that someone else had tampered with the Goblet and maliciously entered Lily’s son’s name—was terrifying enough to keep him awake and hunting.

Light footsteps set Severus’s pulse racing. He whirled out into the main aisle, wand drawn.

“It’s just me,” Anne called from across the large room, holding her hands up as she walked toward him. “What are you doing here so early? I had to break in.”

With a relieved exhale, Severus pocketed his wand and dropped sideways into a lean against the gate of the restricted section. “I was working late last night and got carried away.” A thought occurred to him and he frowned. “How did you know I was here?”

Anne smiled, projecting soothing feelings to him as she closed the last distance between them. She pointed directly up. “I’m pretty sure my bedroom is right there. I could sense you.”

He blinked at her a second, then glanced back at the titled spines of the books he’d left stacked in the restricted aisle. It took a second for the warning flare of Anne’s words to blaze their way into his sleep-deprived brain, shocking him back to alertness. 

Merlin’s beard, he was puzzling out a highly confidential problem and _she could sense him._

Summoning every ounce of clarity he could rally, Severus closed up his mind and barricaded the door. “This isn’t a good time,” he said, holding his face impassive. “I’m in the middle of something… sensitive.”

“Is everything okay?” Anne asked, looking hurt. “You didn’t show up last night after the feast. For our Occlumency lesson.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “My apologies. Something came up and I completely forgot.” Not that it would have made the slightest bit of difference, since at this point Anne seemed more likely to sprout wings than acquire the basics of Occlumency. Their ensuing breakup was looking more and more inevitable every minute. He pushed that thought from his mind—he had enough trouble at the moment not to go borrowing.

Anne tilted her head, eyebrows furrowing. “This is about what happened at the feast, isn't it?”

A chill ran down Severus’s spine. “Anne, leave it alone,” he said very quietly. “I'm begging you, please just go.”

“All right,” Anne said, nodding sadly. “Sorry. I was just concerned about you. I could feel you worrying all the way from my room. And last night, when Albus called up Harry Potter, you—”

“What part of _please go_ is confusing to you?” Severus snapped at her, fuelled forward by a sleepless night of fear and frustration. “I can’t have you here right now! Don’t you understand that?” 

“I-I’m sorry,” Anne stammered, stepping back. “I didn’t think—”

 _“Don’t_ think! For once in your nosey bloody life, don’t think or sense or speculate.” 

His anger rose with the volume of his voice, a tornado drawing its winds from all corners: from Anne’s meddling, from Potter’s selfishness, from Albus’s ruinous advice and most of all from his own self-centered, irresponsible foolishness. _He_ was the one who had started this relationship before waiting to see if it was possible, and he was the one who risked compromising Lily’s son as a result. The overly eventful opening of the Triwizard Tournament was a vital wake-up call about everything he had at stake.

“Do you have any idea how complicated you make everything?” he yelled at Anne. “What a difficult situation you put me in? I’m knee-deep in a powder keg, and here you come, a pretty empath carelessly twirling a lit match. It’s one thing to go snooping when you can at least protect the information, but you can’t even do that, can you?”

She gaped at him, her eyes filling with tears. “That isn’t fair,” she managed to sputter after a moment. “I’m really trying. It’s just taking me longer than I thought.”

“Stop deceiving yourself,” he said, shaking his head. “No amount of study or lessons is going to make you an Occlumens, Anne. All those attempts, and you’ve never once succeeded in blocking me. Never _once._ I don’t believe you can.”

“I just need more time,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “I can figure it out.”

 _“Stop deceiving yourself._ People’s lives are at risk here.”

“Whose life? Yours?” Eyebrows drawn in worry, she searched his face and surely whatever tiny specks of emotion were leaking out the edges of his mind. Then her eyes widened, and her hands flew up over her mouth.

Severus’s heart skipped a beat. Good Godric, _no. Please._

“Harry,” she whispered.

He took a very long inhale and exhale, willing himself not to scream. “It’s time for you to cease your unfounded speculations,” he said coldly, “and go.” 

A moment later, when she was still standing in front of him, lips parted in the prelude to another utterance, his temper reached the end of its fuse. _“Get out!”_ he exploded at her, throwing up his hands. “Get out! For Merlin’s sake, get out and leave me in peace!”

Anne jerked back from him, tears spilling down her cheeks. Then, at last, she was running down the main aisle towards the door. Severus stood there silently watching, controlling his breath as he deliberately drove the woman he loved out of the room and perhaps out of his life.

A minute later, when he was sure he was really alone, he turned and walked back into the restricted section, pulling his wand from his pocket. “Muffliato,” he said. 

Then he sucked in a deep breath and screamed as long and as loud as he could.


	18. Unicorns and Blast-Ended Skrewts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus dropped the book and put his hands over his head.
> 
> So that was it. It was over. No more smiles and flirting and laughter. No more feelings of warmth and affection beamed directly into his head. No more kissing under the stars.
> 
> No more Anne.

When the first rays of morning broke over the Hogwarts grounds, Hagrid was standing in the pumpkin patch outside his house holding a watering can. There were only a few small basketball-sized pumpkins at his feet, since most of the patch had been plundered for last night’s Halloween feast, but that made no difference to Hagrid, whose watering can was empty anyway.

From where he stood, he had a perfect view of the door of the Beauxbaton carriage at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Every time someone moved in one of the windows, Hagrid quickly raised the can and pretended to water the pumpkins. He kept his eye glued to the carriage door, waiting for his “chance” run-in with a certain large, beautiful woman he hoped to escort to breakfast.

The first door to open, however, was the main entrance door to Hogwarts. Off in the distance, it burst open and a tiny white figure bolted out in a stumbling motion, like a hippogriff with something in its eye. The figure fled down the courtyard steps and Hagrid squinted at it, holding his empty watering can over his eyes to block out the sun.

“Takin’ up runnin’?” he called as the figure came alongside the lake and he recognized it.

Startled by his voice, Anne stopped on the cobbly shore. She bent forward slightly and gave him a small wave. Something about her posture and silence itched at Hagrid, who’d pulled enough thorns out of paws to know a wounded animal when he saw one. Dropping his watering can, he headed off across the patch to her, accidentally crushing a young pumpkin under his enormous boot.

Anne bent her head, her long hair falling forward like a veil, and it wasn’t until Hagrid got close that he noticed tears glistening off the side of her reddened face.

“Hey now,” he said, opening his big arms to her as he approached. “Wha’s the matter?”

She tried to answer him, but all that came out was a great shaking sob.

Wrapping her up in his embrace, he spoke in the voice he used to coax frightened Acromantulas down from their webs: “There now, it’ll be all righ’. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. It’ll be all righ’.” He kept up this string of gentle comforting as she wept into the bottom of his bushy beard.

After a few minutes, Anne raised her head. “Hagrid,” she said in a wavering, gasping voice. “Have you ever… failed at something… that you really needed to… that people were… counting on you… and you just… ruined everything?”

“Oh Anne,” he said, smiling down at her. _“Loads_ o’ times. More times than yeh could count on all yer fingers an’ toes.”

Anne gave a small laugh through her tears, nodding.

“C’mon,” he said, patting her on the back as he released her. “I know what’ll make yeh feel better. Let’s go feed the skrewts.”

She burst into fresh sobs—poor thing, she really needed to let it all out—as he took her hand and led her back up to the boxes of blast-ended skrewts he had tucked behind the pumpkin patch. Anne hadn’t seen them for a few weeks; she was going to be amazed at how big they’d grown!

“Gotta keep ‘em separated now,” Hagrid told her as he lifted the lid off one of the boxes to reveal an impressive three-foot-long skrewt, dawn light gleaming off its majestic grey shell and pincers. “Think they migh’ be gettin’ territorial with each other. Lemme go get the possum chuck and we’ll feed ‘em. Oh!” He reached into his coat pocket and held out a pair of thick dragonskin gloves to Anne. “And yeh’ll be wantin’ _these.”_

* * *

After taking a minute to calm himself, Severus had tried to return to his research in the restricted section of the library, but had found himself distracted. Was Potter’s entrance into the TriWizard Tournament even the biggest problem at the moment? Or should he be more concerned that the person who already knew about his work deceiving Voldemort now correctly suspected he was protecting Harry Potter? And that she had no ability to protect this information from anyone who wanted to force it out of her?

He’d turned back to his stack of books, but added two keywords to the list he was scanning the indexes for: _empath_ and _Occlumency._

Now, an hour later, Severus groaned as he rubbed the corner of his eyes with his fingers. He picked up the book, which seemed to have tripled in weight, and read the passage one last time, just to be certain:

_Recovered excerpts from McAlimander's journal recount his failure to become an Occlumens. He theorized that the unique physiology that allowed him to perceive emotions empathically also prevented him from achieving the emotional detachment required to block Legilimens, a shortcoming he claimed to have confirmed with an empathic acquaintance. McAlimander took great pains to hide this vulnerability during his career as an Auror, fearing it would be exploited if his enemies gained knowledge of it._

He dropped the book and put his hands over his head.

So that was it. It was over. No more smiles and flirting and laughter. No more feelings of warmth and affection beamed directly into his head. No more kissing under the stars.

No more Anne.

Leaving the books piled where they were, Severus stood and staggered out of the restricted section, throwing a lazy flick of his wand behind him to lock the gate.

He was going to bed. And he was calling in sick tomorrow to stay there.

* * *

Out came the possum chuck and up came the lids off the twenty boxes of skrewts. After only an hour, Hagrid was pleased to see his plan to cheer up Anne was working; it was hard to cry or be sad about anything when you had to concentrate on not getting stung, blasted or pinched.

“You know, Hagrid,” Anne said, rubbing her wrist after she’d failed to dodge a stinger for the second time, “I don’t know if I could come to… _respect_ these creatures without you here, um, _modelling_ your appreciation for them.” She gave him a small, worn-out smile. “You really care about them, don’t you?”

“‘Course I do,” Hagrid said, looking lovingly over the living things he’d hatched and raised. “I know they’re not unicorns or griffins. They’ll never be pretty or cuddly. But sometimes yeh have to just ‘preciate things fer what they _are._ Let ‘em be what they are, do things in their own way.”

Anne stopped rubbing her wrist and nodded absently, her eyebrows furrowing as she absorbed his words.

“Trouble is,” Hagrid went on, reaching down to (very carefully) stroke the top of a skrewt’s shell, “mos’ people don’ take the time ter get to _know_ critters like these. It’s hard to sit with somethin’ tha’s strange or unsettlin’ to the stomach. Sends mos’ folks runnin’ fer the hills.”

Not Anne, though. Her mouth had dropped open and she was staring intensely at the skrewts now, like she was boring holes into them with the heat of her widening eyes. It was beautiful—she was bonding with them!

“Gotta admit,” Hagrid said, chuckling, “I m’self could do without the drippin’ suckers on the females. All that oozin’. ‘Minds me of the time Ron Weasley’s wand backfired an’ he spen’ the whole af’ernoon coughin’ up—” At the last second, he caught himself. Now that he was trying to woo a real lady like Madame Maxime, he wanted to pay more mind to the kind of tales that came flying off his tongue. “Nevermin’.”

Anne’s head spun toward him. “Why? Is it gross?” she asked, her eyes blazing bright as dragonfire. “I want to hear.”

Hagrid burst out laughing. Women. You never could tell with women.

Settling down into a comfortable squat on a nearby rock, Hagrid rested his elbows on his knees and began: “It was ‘bout two years ago, Ron busted his wand. Don’ quite ‘member how, but he did. And so this one day, he decides he’s gonna curse this Slytherin kid Draco Malfoy. Now, Malfoy had it comin', y’see…”

* * *

The following night, Severus stood beside the entrance to the library, at the bottom of the winding staircase tower that led up to Anne’s apartment. The stairs, which were a tiring trek on a good day, now seemed insurmountable. Everything had seemed impossible these past two days, even eating or getting out of bed.

Sighing, Severus forced himself up the first step.

Life would go on, he told himself. It had after Lily—a sad, empty husk of a life—and it would after Anne. He still had his job. And his mission, if he hadn’t botched it up too badly.

Another step. Another.

He should have known it wouldn’t work out anyway. Had he forgotten all the terrible things he’d done in his life? What a monster he was? He didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve love.

And the next step. And the next.

That’s what it was at this point. Love. He couldn’t deny it any longer: he was in love with Anne. It was just as intense and all-consuming as it had ever been with Lily.

The steps went on and on.

At least this time, the woman he loved would live. He was doing what was necessary to ensure that. And if things got too complicated with her here at Hogwarts—if she continued interfering with his work or if the Dark Lord returned—he would ask Albus to send her away; the headmaster owed him that much, after all his reckless advice _(Anne is very resourceful,_ the old wizard had said. _I’m sure she’ll concoct some strategy that works for her._ What wishful, fooling thinking). Perhaps Severus could come to be content with that, with just knowing she was alive and well somewhere in the world, even if it was with someone else.

Another bend in the tower stairs and the door to her chambers was in view. It opened as he reached the final steps—she must have felt him coming. It was the last time she would ever sense him, he resolved, closing his mind against her for good.

“Is everything all right?” Anne asked, pulling open the door to stand silhouetted in her living room light. “Where have you been? Why weren’t you at meals?” And damn the dragons if she wasn’t as lovely as ever, her hair piled carelessly on top of her head and orange speckles of wet paint flecked across her hands and smeared under one eye.

A better man would have wished he’d never met her. Severus only wished he’d kissed her more often when he’d had the chance. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said.

“I’m sorry too.” Taking his hand, she guided him into the room towards her mismatched couches. “You were right—I should have known to stay back when it’s something you can’t tell me yet. I promise I’ll be more careful about that in the future, until you decide it’s safe to explain everything.”

Severus chose the lone armchair that prevented her from sitting too close to him. She sat close anyway, perched on the edge of her seat on the couch beside him with her hand still clasping his.

“I don’t believe it’s ever going to be safe,” Severus said quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. After their last interaction, he was hoping she might have already come to this conclusion on her own. “As much as I deeply, _deeply_ wish it wasn’t so, I don’t believe there’s any hope for a future for us.”

He’d expected those words to be as devastating to her as they were for him, but Anne only raised her eyebrows and asked: “Because of the Occlumency thing?” She waved her hand. “I’ve been looking all over for you to tell you, I think I’ve finally figured out something that will work.”

Severus bent to put his head in his free hand, sighing. “No, Anne, you haven’t. I’ve been looking into it, and there’s every indication that empaths simply can’t be Occlumens. Your emotional perception doesn’t let you detach enough to block a Legilimens.”

“Exactly,” Anne said, punctuating her word with a light slap against the hand she was holding. “We’ve been going about this all backwards. We’ve been trying to make a unicorn out of a blast-ended skrewt.”

Merlin’s beard, what was she on about? He raised his head to blink at her.

“Give it a go,” she said, dropping his hand to sit up straight against the back of the couch. “Legilimens me your worst.”

Groaning, Severus shook his head. “Haven’t we flogged this dead horse to a pulp already?”

“Come _on,_ Sev! A little trust here?” She shot him a look like an exasperated mother to a child. “Seriously, try to get inside my head. If I can’t block you right away, just stay with it a minute. Actually…” And Merlin on a flying vacuum cleaner if she didn’t sniff out a tiny laugh. “You know what? Stay with it as long as you can.”

Suppressing an eye roll, Severus reluctantly pulled his wand from his cloak. Why did she have to drag out the inevitable? He just wanted this whole agonizing ordeal to be over, so he could go back to bed, sleep for two more days and then try to get on with his miserable, lonely life.

“Legilimens,” he muttered, and jumped into her mind.


	19. The Incident with the Slugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus’s heart tightened in his chest. Merlin’s beard, had she actually done it? This was the first time he’d entered Anne's mind without the empathic connection running between them; he couldn’t sense whatever detrimental emotion might be lingering in the air, but at least this _looked_ promising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: You maybe shouldn't read this chapter while you're eating. Or if you've just eaten.

“So they dragged Ron up to my place, one of ‘em on either arm…”

A scene was rapidly forming in Anne’s mind by the time Severus finished entering it. He was glumly unsurprised. They’d been over and over this—she always _thought_ she was detaching when she was really just turning up another deuce from the trick deck of her self-delusion.

“But ‘course, there was nothin’ _I_ could do for him,” Hagrid said, fading into view with his huge body squatted precariously on the edge of a small rock. “‘Cept get him a bucket. Nothin’ to be done but wait for…”

Like words blown off sand, the half-giant dispersed into nothingness, into the blinding white of a blank canvas.

Severus’s heart tightened in his chest. Merlin’s beard, had she actually done it? This was the first time he’d entered Anne's mind without the empathic connection running between them; he couldn’t sense whatever detrimental emotion might be lingering in the air, but at least this _looked_ promising.

He’d no sooner formed the thought when another scene began to take shape: an unfamiliar classroom crammed with desks of study-bent teenagers and Anne standing at the chalkboard at the front.

His heart plummeted back into his stomach. What a fool. He’d actually let himself get his hopes up again.

“Professor Swanson?” a red-haired boy in the second row cried, his hand shooting up. “Can I go to the nurse’s office?”

Anne’s heeled shoes clacked over to him, her eyebrows arching in concern. “Are you not feeling well?”

The boy bent forward at his desk, his face pale and shining with sweat. “It’s my stomach,” he moaned. “I… I think I’m going to be sick…” Eyes clenched tight, he began to heave and gag.

 _How appropriate,_ Severus thought, a fresh weight of exhaustion settling over him. Was there any more fitting way to spend the last night of their brief train wreck of a relationship than sharing a vivid memory of one of her students throwing up?

With a sound like a boot being slowly pulled out of mud, the boy’s jaw wrenched wide open and something green and glistening oozed its way out, wriggling.

Good Godric, was that a _slug?_

The room erupted into squeals as the squirming creature slopped down sideways onto the desk, a string of slime still connecting it to a corner of the boy’s mouth. Anne bent forward to stare wide-eyed at the slug, which throbbed and bulged. Her face was just inches away when it exploded, splattering what looked like raw egg white across her face, into her eyes, into her open mouth. She flinched backwards, blinded and shrieking.

Then she too began to heave and gag. And so did the students.

A second later, everyone was hurling up slugs. The first boy bent forward again, spewing forth a gush of them like a full fisherman’s net squelched out onto a ship deck. Behind him, a girl with cornrows heaved so hard the vessels in her eyes were breaking and streams of slime were pouring from her nostrils. Anne doubled forward, gagging and coughing as the longest slug Severus had ever seen slowly writhed its way out of her mouth.

Severus Snape was not a squeamish man, but the endless winding wiggle of that slug made his skin crawl. It reminded him of a huge nightcrawler he’d once found in his backyard as a child, a red, throbbing monster he’d pulled and pulled from the earth, horrified, but unable to stop until he saw for certain there was an end to it. He still dreamed about that worm sometimes.

Anne’s eyes bulged as she began to choke, tearing at the slug with her nails to try to force it out of her mouth. It just kept coming and coming. Oh Godric, _where was its end?_

Back in the body he’d left waiting in the armchair, his own stomach lurched. Severus tore himself violently out of Anne’s mind, wobbling up to a stand before he’d even reclaimed full control of his muscles.

“For Merlin’s sake, Anne,” he gasped, sucking in deep breaths and trying to ride out the waves of nausea. “What in the nine hells do you eat in Canada?” He stumbled to the side of the armchair, steadying himself with one hand resting on its high back.

Anne came back to herself slowly, her eyelids fluttering. Then, to his most profound shock, she threw back her head in a squawk of hysterical laughter.

Severus gaped her, his temper rising to a simmer and then a boil as her laugh howled on and on. Apparently she found this failing bell toll that marked their couplehood’s exact time of death _hilarious._

Finally she quieted, wiping a tear from the side of her face. “It worked,” she breathed, beaming up at him. “It actually worked.”

His eyebrows flew up in outrage. “What on earth are you talking about? You didn’t block _anything!_ That was the most gratuitous display of unbridled memory I’ve ever seen.”

“Except it wasn’t a memory.” She grinned at him. “It never happened. I made it all up.”

He blinked at her, his mind struggling to make sense of her words.

“Don’t you see?” Anne said, smiling so widely she nearly cut her own face in half. “I can’t do emotional detachment, but I’m good with stories and I’m _great_ with imagery. So what if I can’t block? That’s _basic_ Occlumency.” She waved the notion away like a mosquito. “I’ll just skip right to the advanced stuff.”

Severus’s eyes wandered sightless to the side of the room as he began to grasp her meaning. She couldn’t void her emotions, but she could concentrate them enough to produce the false layer of mentality Occlumens used, not to _hide_ their own thoughts, but to _disguise_ them.

The question was, could she do it on command, at a moment’s notice?

Lightning fast, without a word of warning, Severus leapt back into her head.

* * *

Anne was midway through another peel of laughter when she felt him coming. After a quick jolt of surprise, she dove deep down into her mind and groped for the vision she wanted to pull up. It was the exact sensation that came from sketching portraits or landscapes, when her eyes darted quickly from her subject back to her paper, carrying with them a mental copy of the image she was trying to reproduce.

_Focus, Anne. Slugs._

The scene popped back into her mind’s eye: a classroom drenched in vomited slime and she herself bent forward, choking out a slug as long and thick as a snake.

Something about that long slug had hit a nerve with Severus. Earlier, when she’d first started coughing it up, she’d felt the shield of his mind slip and a shiver of horror slither out. It reminded him of something he found disturbing. Not a slug, and probably not a snake either (what former Death Eater could be afraid of snakes?). An earthworm, maybe? Concentrating hard, Anne summoned the image to the front of her mind and the scene began to change.

The long slug hanging from her mouth faded from bright green to pale, rubbery red, its antennas absorbing back into its rounding head. Just as she would paint in finer details with a brush, Anne added ridged furrows and segments along the creature’s body, one smooth band near its middle, an oily shine. She pictured its motions and the huge worm stretched and contracted, burrowing its way out of her mouth.

This was _way_ more fun than trying to block.

She had just shifted her attention to the gagging noises she was making, really hamming them up with guttural grunts and gurgles, when the spectacle faded and she was back sitting on her living room couch.

Severus huddled over the back of the armchair, his eyes clenched shut and his hand clasped over his mouth, sniffing deep breaths in and out.

“You must have a cast iron stomach,” he said, shuddering.

Anne giggled.

“Do you think you would be able to do that again, without warning?” he asked, straightening. “If a Legilimens came at you at a random moment, do you think you could dream up something that quickly?”

“With practice, I think I could.” She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know if I could ever use it the way you do, though. I’m not a good liar. I don’t think I could deceive someone, make them believe I’m not using Occlumency.” She glanced up at him, shrugging. “But I can show them something they won't like, try to sense what bothers them and use it to chase them out of my head. I can stop them from finding what they’re looking for.”

For a long, agonizing minute, Severus scratched absently at the back of the chair and said nothing, deep in thought.

“Well?” she asked when she couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. “What do you think? Will it be enough?” Her heart didn’t know whether to leap or crumble into a thousand pieces, so it simply stopped.

Severus looked up at her, his face solemn as stone. Then he nodded. “It’s enough.”

Joy exploded through her body and she jumped up, ready to run to him. But he put a hand up over one side of his face and sighed heavily.

“What’s wrong?” Anne asked, her smile collapsing.

He looked away. “Oh, no, it’s nothing,” he said, his voice thick. “I just… I thought…”

She walked to him and put her hand over the one he had resting on the chair back.

“When I came here tonight…” He swallowed hard before he could continue. “I was afraid… I thought we’d have to…” He closed his eyes and she realized he was trying not to get choked up.

He opened himself to her then, and she was suddenly beside him on the narrow edge of the cliff he’d been desperately clinging to. Up above, faint rays of hope and happiness glinted against the summit peaks, hints of the veiled, precious future he was just beginning to imagine for himself, with her. Below, swallowing up the valley and stretching out endlessly across the horizon, was darkness and ruin: a wasteland of a life he’d long wallowed in, alone and miserable. He’d lost his footing and nearly fallen back into it, clawing at the cruel stone for purchase and fearing if he didn’t find it, he’d never again gather the strength to try to climb out.

But he hadn’t fallen. He was still on the edge, reeling with relief as he grasped the fickle hand of grace itself and clung to it. And she was there with him.

“Oh, Sev,” she breathed, projecting her affection as she rushed to slide her arms under his. 

He flinched slightly as she embraced him, but she held tight, shocked at the sensation of novelty it raised in him. Had he never been comforted this way before? The thought was almost inconceivable to Anne, who cried at the drop of a hat and welcomed comfort wherever she found it. For all her ease of tears, she had rarely shed one that wasn’t wiped tenderly away by a loved one, a friend, even a kind stranger. That simple human connection gave her the strength to go on when all hope seemed lost. Had Severus denied himself that?

“It’s okay now,” she told him, squeezing as tight as she could. “You’re not alone anymore.”

After a minute, she felt his shoulders relax and the heavy chains around his heart begin to shift and loosen. She softened her arms, pulling back enough to look at him.

He stared down at her, searching her face as though it was the first time he could truly see her. There was no change in his features, in his hooked nose or dark eyes; yet there was a newness to him, an openness she’d never sensed before. It was like something had been born inside him, a tiny seed that had slept away the dry years, waiting to burst open and unfurl itself at the caress of the first gentle rain. Anne smiled, welcoming it to the world.

Then, with sudden urgency, he was kissing her. His hand clasped to the small of her back and he pulled her in tight against him, lifting her heels off the floor.

She laughed gently into his mouth, returning his kisses as her joy spilled up over the edge of her mind and into his.


	20. Kiss Me Like a Death Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Close off your mind,” Anne told him. “Just for twenty minutes—but every time I sense an emotion from you, you lose a point. Starting… now.” 
> 
> “Surely we could have started with something more advanced,” Severus grumbled. 
> 
> “Oh, I intend to up the difficulty as we go.” Grinning, she shifted herself closer. “Tell me, professor, what do you think of this skirt? The material—its quality?” She pulled his hand to the hemline stretched across her knee.

Neville Longbottom hunched miserably on the stool, bringing his fingers absently up and almost into his mouth before the sour stench stung his nostrils. Shuddering, he thrust his hand as far away from his body as he could. His nails were caked with purple gunk.

The motion caught Snape’s attention from where he sat brooding at his desk, on the other side of the classroom. Curling his lip in a snarl, he jeered: “Yawning and stretching already, Longbottom? Perhaps those horned toads are too tepid a task for someone of your… _talents.”_ As he said the word, the Potions professor’s eyes wandered to the back of the room, where Neville’s seventh melted cauldron of the year had finally stopped steaming. “Shall I find something more enticing for you to disembowel? A squid, perhaps.”

Neville fought to control his shivering. “No, please sir, I—”

“Then pick up the pace. And mind those clumsy fingers. If I find a _single_ impaled toad liver,” Snape warned, his eyes narrowing to slits, “I’ll tear its replacement out of your pitiful pet.”

Gulping, Neville nodded and reached to pull another dead horned toad from the brimming barrel beside him. 

A knock on the open classroom door almost startled him off his seat. Professor Swanson floated in like a warm summer breeze, her long hair bouncing behind her. It was astounding how she managed to smile at such a vile, terrifying man as Snape.

“Oh, hello Neville,” she said, turning to wave to him in the corner. 

Neville nodded to her and felt himself blushing. Merlin’s beard, she’d remembered his name!

A moment later, still staring at him, the smile faded from her face. She glanced uneasily back and forth between Neville and Snape, her brow furrowed, then asked the latter: “What’s going on?”

“Detention,” Snape said.

Another long, studying look from Professor Swanson made Neville’s face heat up like a furnace. What was she thinking, seeing him here in detention? Would she write him off as a trouble-maker? Or just stupid and useless, like everyone else did? He felt a rare, overwhelming gratitude to Snape, for not recounting his most recent embarrassment to the prettiest teacher in school.

Just when he feared he might burst into flames if she stared at him another second, Professor Swanson smiled, then turned back to talk to Snape. 

“I was hoping you might be free to chat for a bit,” she said.

“Ah. To discuss my class’s involvement in CHARM, you mean.” Snape glanced over to Neville, who looked away quickly. “Unfortunately, as you can see, I’m occupied.”

Professor Swanson gave a small laugh, like the low strings of a harp. “It really seems to me your student’s punishment has been felt in full. Shame to waste a nice day on a lesson already learned.”

“A punishment felt is not necessarily a lesson learned,” Snape grumbled. Then, waving his wand: _“Muffliato.”_

The air buzzed as if a colony of bees had arranged themself into a solid wall in the middle of the classroom. Neville continued with the toads, taking extreme care to keep his motions small and smooth so he could risk stealing the occasional glance at the two teachers. Professor Swanson was smiling, as she always was, her posture absurdly relaxed for this setting, like a rabbit sunbathing at the mouth of a wolf’s den. Neville thought he spied Snape laugh once, but the notion seemed ridiculous and he didn’t chance another look to confirm it.

A few minutes later, the buzzing cut and Snape shouted: “Longbottom!”

Neville fumbled the toad in his hand and nearly dropped it.

“You’re released for the day,” Snape said, packing up the papers on his desk. “I trust you won’t misinterpret a detention cut short by my other obligations as leniency for your foolishness?”

“I… uh… no, sir,” Neville sputtered, gaping.

“Good. Then get out.”

He bolted from his stool like a mouse escaping a cat’s claw, then tripped over the bag at his feet and almost fell. He caught himself on the side of the desk, groping below for the strap of his bag. As he fled the room, Neville nodded a goodbye to Professor Swanson, wishing he could thank her for whatever magic she’d worked to rescue him (he didn’t dare, in front of Snape).

She smiled at him again and his heart cramped in his chest.

* * *

“Twenty points and twenty minutes,” Anne said, flicking her wand to set two boldface numbers hovering in the air, centered over her paint-speckled living room coffee table. She slid her black teaching robe off her shoulders—beneath it, she wore a fitted cream silk shirt and a black pencil skirt—and tossed it onto the armchair before dropping into the neighbouring loveseat.

Beside her, on the other couch cushion, Severus raised a disapproving eyebrow. “I didn’t betray my afternoon commitments to play games. You made it sound like you wanted to practice Occlumency—to begin assessing my guard, empathically.”

A tiny glare of wrath winked inside him as he spoke, making Anne tense and grab for her slug fantasy like a shield. For the past week and a half, he’d been testing her, jumping into her mind without warning at random moments to see if she could call up her foul fiction before one of her true memories presented itself. She was getting very quick, but she was also beginning to see slugs every time she closed her eyes.

After a moment, when he didn’t invade, her shoulders relaxed again. "We _are_ here for Occlumency. But you know, Sev, a game can be a fun way to practice. You should try it sometime, with your students.”

He blinked at her as if she’d suggested he join a party-planning committee.

She patted his hand. “Well, just give it a chance. I think you’ll come to enjoy my teaching style.” And if there was a hint of mischief wriggling across the projection to him as she said that, let him feel it. He would quickly realize just what kind of game they were playing anyway.

“Close off your mind,” she told him. “Just for twenty minutes—but every time I sense an emotion from you, you lose a point. Starting… now.” 

One of the floating numbers changed from twenty to counting down from 19:59. There was a flicker of annoyance from Severus, and then absolutely nothing, as if he had closed a soundproof door in his head. “Surely we could have started with something more advanced,” he grumbled. 

“Oh, I intend to up the difficulty as we go.” Grinning, Anne shifted herself closer to him. “Tell me, professor, what do you think of this skirt? The material—its quality?” She pulled his hand to the hemline stretched across her knee.

When he grasped her plan, his eyes betrayed bewilderment for the briefest instant before he raised them, hardened, to hers. “Quite fine quality,” he pronounced sternly, holding her gaze and making a show of sliding two fingers beneath the fabric to sample it against his thumb.

Even though it was only her knee and only the slightest touch, Anne’s pulse began to race. Maybe this was _finally_ going somewhere.

Despite the whole graphically-throwing-up-slugs thing last Sunday night, their ensuing kiss had heated to the point where she’d thought he might tear off her clothes and make love to her right there on her living room couch. He could have—she’d been slamming wanton encouragement into his head as hard as she could—but instead he’d pulled back, just slightly less restrained than he’d been on their first date. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to; in fact, now that he’d finally stopped policing his emotions so strictly, she sensed him looking at her and thinking about her sexually every time they were together. Yet he never did anything about it and he blocked her advances.

It was completely maddening and it had to stop. Tonight.

“And the length?” she asked, slipping from the couch to the edge of the coffee table in front of him. Her legs were between his; she crossed one over the other.

Severus glanced calmly down at her knees, then back up. “The length is fine.”

“Do you think I could get away with it—” She slid the tight skirt up to her mid-thigh. “—here?”

“Perhaps outside the classroom.”

“How about here?” She pulled the skirt a few inches higher, teasing his ankle with her toe.

This time, as he looked down at the smooth length of her exposed thighs, a quick blip of feeling pulsed out from him: excitement, yes, but also painful awkwardness. It was a combination Anne often sensed from teenagers flirting in the hallways.

“Point!” she called. The floating twenty changed to nineteen.

Severus rolled his eyes. “Do you intend to continue this cabaret for the full twenty minutes?”

Anne laughed, leaning forward toward him. “That depends. Do you intend for us to just keep kissing and holding hands like kids for the next twenty years?” Chewing her lip, she slid herself off the edge of the table and into his lap.

She would never have guessed how hard he worked not to tense his body, if only he hadn't tensed his mind. 

“Point,” Anne murmured into his ear. The score dropped to eighteen.

Clearing his throat, he shifted to readjust her weight across his legs. “I’m beginning to suspect you had an ulterior motive in inviting me here.”

Giggling, she reached to turn his chin toward her and kissed him.

It was… different. Something in the way he held his jaw made him feel stiff and lifeless against her lips, like kissing a wardrobe. His timing was a bit off too, his mouth seeming to lag behind hers or speed too quickly at varying moments. Griffins, is this what kissing was like for normal people? She resolved never to do it without the empathic connection ever again.

Another sharp prickle of awkwardness from Severus. Evidently, he agreed.

Anne pulled back from him. “Point.”

Then, hardly a second later, as she began undoing her shirt buttons: more uneasiness from him, but also an encouraging spark of interest. “Another point,” she said. “You’re at sixteen now.” 

He glanced away as she unfastened the final button and slid her silk shirt off her shoulders to reveal a wine-coloured lace bra. “Anne…”

“Oh, come on,” she purred, giving him a teasing smile. “If you want to snog like teenagers on the third floor corridor, at least cop a feel.” He looked put-off by the remark, but when she took his hand and put it to the side of her breast, excitement jolted through him like an electric shock. “Point.”

Severus leaned back in to kiss her, but it seemed less like an act of desire and more one of desperation, to keep from looking at her or talking to her any longer. “Point.” His hand stayed pressed to her breast, barely moving except for the occasional squeeze, which felt strange and obligatory. “Point.” Though she could sense scraps of his emotions frequently now, it didn’t make him feel any closer—it was as if he had retreated into his own frustrated, anxious mind and disappeared from the moment entirely. “Point.”

It was one thing to be a bit nervous with a new partner, sure, but Merlin’s beard, this really _was_ like kissing a teenager. The empathic connection would help, Anne told herself, but for the moment she was relieved to be cut off and feeling her profound disappointment in private. What a complete turn-off! Here she’d been fantasizing for weeks about this dark, brooding, commanding man, and what she seemed to have gotten in reality was a spooked schoolboy, too jittery over his big crush to actually interact with her. She might as well be snogging Neville Longbottom.

“Point,” she called again, and pulled back from him. Suddenly, sitting on his lap felt silly, like a puppet act. “Maybe we should stop for today. You’re down to eleven and it’s… You seem like you’ve lost your edge.” She bit her tongue to keep from calling a tenth point as a wave of emotion swept off him: he was embarrassed, and it made him angry.

Severus turned away, his jaw set so tight it looked painful. “I don’t know _why_ you thought this would be a relevant exercise,” he seethed. “This is hardly a situation I’d find myself in among Death Eaters and it’s _certainly_ not the way I’d act if I did.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.” He shook his head, sighing. “I’m just different with them. Colder. It’s easier that way.”

She shrugged. “So try acting that way with me.”

Huffing, he scooped her off his legs and back over to the seat beside him. “I'll pass, thank you. It’s ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t,” she said, holding onto his arms when he tried to pull back from her. “I’m serious. I want you to try it.”

“Believe me,” he scoffed, “you don’t.”

“I do.” She stared him dead in the eye.

He looked at her for a long moment, and something inside him began to itch with possibility (point). His expression softened for a second, before he gave a sniff of a laugh and turned away. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“Would you relax? I’m not afraid of you—I’ve seen you act cold before.” She grinned at him. “Besides, how do you know if it actually works any better unless you let me sense it? Come on, give it a try.” With exaggerated drama, she shook her hair back behind her like an old Hollywood actress and said in her most breathless voice: “Kiss me like a Death Eater.”

He watched her another minute, his eyebrows held bent in skepticism. He looked about ready to get up and leave. 

Then something in his black eyes changed. They seemed sharper, suddenly, and darker, like a cat’s eyes watching its prey wander close. Once again, Anne’s pulse quickened.

Severus looked down the length of her body, calmly appraising as though she were a sculpture or a purebred dog, and she felt nothing from him. It was the longest he had ever looked at her this way, lightyears away from his usual quick, stolen glances. She welcomed it, but she also found herself fighting to resist making some cute quip to ease the building tension.

Slowly, moving like a shadow, he reached his hands under her. Anne’s breath caught in her throat: one hand grasped the back of her still-exposed upper thigh, the other her ass—places they’d never been before. Pulling her to him, he sat her on the slice of cushion between his thighs, his hands stroking and wandering. When she kissed him this time, his mouth was hard but very much alive, nipping and sucking at her bottom lip. She moaned into it as his thumb slid across the front of her bra.

Merlin on a moonbeam, _yes._ Whatever was going on his head right now—and she had no idea—she wanted more of it. The thought of being in there with him, feeling this with him, set her whole body aching.

“Take my bra off,” she panted as his mouth moved, biting, down her neck.

He twisted the length of her hair in his fist. “I’ll do as I please.”

* * *

Holding her head back by her hair, Severus sucked at her neck, bit her collarbone, kissed his way down the curve of her breast.

She was his, to do with as he liked. Every inch of her beautiful body and every whim of her mind was his to explore, to take, to command. She would submit herself to him, to whatever immodest or degrading act he wished of her, and if she didn’t? He would punish her; he would restrain, humiliate, make her cry out. He would light a pretty blush in her cheeks and leave welts and bruises across her smooth skin in other places. And though she would squirm and scream, she would also crave it, because it felt right. Because she was his.

“Game’s over, Sev,” she breathed, her hands fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. “Let me in. I want to feel what you’re feeling right now.”

And suddenly, she was Anne again—sweet, gentle, funny Anne, who sat in on seventh-year classes for fun and who held him through his most vulnerable moments. The Anne he loved more than anything in the world and wanted desperately to protect. How could he ever want to hurt or control her? What kind of monster wanted that?

He had to get out of this situation—sadistic fantasies aside, if they opened an empathic connection now he’d likely end up taking her right here on the couch—but his face was buried in her breasts and the hand that wasn’t pulling her hair was endeavoring to squeeze both her buttocks at once. _Merlin’s beard, Severus, have you no self-control at all?_

An inelegant but surefire exit occurred to him. He slid his hand out from under her and fumbled in his pocket for his wand.

_“Legilimens.”_


	21. Head Versus Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Severus pulled out of her mind, he felt in control. The part of his brain that made sensible decisions and prevented foolish, spontaneous mistakes had started to speak again. It was safe to let Anne back into his head; he dropped his guard.
> 
> The first thing he sensed from her, as she returned to herself, was frustration—both the sexual and generic brands. Pushing against his shirt, which she’d managed to unbutton most of the way, she shoved herself up off his lap. 
> 
> “What in the nine hells?” Anne cried. “You really had to do that _right now?”_

Anne had become lightning-fast at her own style of Occlumency in just eleven days of practice (snogging ambushes aside, she really was a terrific student). Under the circumstances, however, Severus wasn’t surprised to catch a more candid scene playing out as he forced his way into her mind.

The image shone, looming in front of him with cinema screen magnitude: two half-dressed figures writhing on an old loveseat, the woman’s long brown hair wrapped in the man’s fist. Apparently, he and Anne were in accordance as to how the activity their bodies had been left frozen in on her living room couch was bound to progress. If he had allowed it to continue, that is.

Severus struggled to shift his attention to the paint-stained coffee table in the foreground; the grinding on the loveseat was doing nothing to quell his libido.

At last, mercifully, Anne regained control of her mind and here came the bit with the slugs. And the worm. He didn’t _need_ to watch it for more than a second—just enough to verify her speed and consistency in conjuring the vision—but he did. He forced himself to watch until his stomach turned, until the concentration of blood in his body finally began to soften and redistribute.

By the time he pulled out of her mind, he felt in control. The part of his brain that made sensible decisions and prevented foolish, spontaneous mistakes had started to speak again. It was safe to let Anne back into his head; he dropped his guard.

The first thing he sensed from her, as she returned to herself, was frustration—both the sexual and generic brands. Pushing against his shirt, which she’d managed to unbutton most of the way, she shoved herself up off his lap. 

“What in the nine hells?” Anne cried. “You really had to do that _right now?”_

“I'm impressed you still managed that illusion, though you took a minute.” He handed her back her blouse, which she grabbed, glaring, out of his hand. “And did you sense anything from me, during that last bit? Did I at least win the game?” He glanced at the floating numbers, which claimed he still had eleven points and only three minutes left on the countdown; after his shamefully bumbling start, it wasn’t a terrible score.

She gaped at him, a shine coming to her eyes. “Who gives a damn about the stupid game? This was huge for us! We were finally… I thought you wanted to…” She swallowed hard, covering her mouth with a curled hand as doubt and disappointment flooded from her.

“I didn’t come here for that, Anne,” he said as gently as he could. “And it’s not because I’m not interested. I am—I think that’s pretty obvious, empath or not.” A purpling bruise on her neck caught his eye and he almost groaned. _For Merlin’s sake, Severus._ “It just gets so intense when we’re in each other’s heads, even without the ricochet. Just now, if I’d opened to you… I don’t think we would have stopped.”

Anne shrugged, exasperated. “I didn’t _want_ us to stop.”

“Yes,” he said, sighing as he bent his head to button his shirt. “I had noticed.”

* * *

Severus’s eyes went distant as he fell back into his habit of pulling out of the moment to ruminate, using his mind like a churning stomach to try to digest whatever worry had just poured into it. He was beating himself up again—that’s all Anne could really make out. It was a garbled mess of negative emotions, each tied to some deeper thought or argument, all of them warring inside his head. Most of them about her.

Tiny specks of guilt collected and solidified into a heavy stone in Anne’s stomach. She’d hoped to make him feel many things tonight, but not this. Biting her lip, she replayed her own behaviour in her head. _Griffins, Anne. For an empath, you sure are an insensitive clod sometimes._

“I’m sorry,” she said, exhaling deeply as she sat back beside him on the couch. “I’m pressuring you. I am, and I shouldn’t. We can take as much time as you need. I guess I just thought things would move faster once I learned Occlumency. I never considered that you… That part of you might not be… Well, _ready.”_

He tilted his head, an eyebrow raising. “I’m not a thirty-four-year-old virgin, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That has nothing to do with anything.” She shook her head, searching for the right words. “It’s like… It’s like you’re having an argument with yourself, but I can only hear one side. Your heart keeps telling you to go all-in with me—sex, a full relationship, not sneaking around anymore—but your head keeps making some other argument, and that’s the one you’re listening to.” She looked down at her hands. “But empaths aren’t Legilimens… so I’m asking, will you please tell me what it is you’re thinking?”

He paused for a long moment, radiating tenderness for her as the machinery of his mind chugged and chugged, printing out volumes in a language Anne couldn’t read. 

“Hmm,” Severus said at last, nodding. “Very well.” He glanced sideways at her. “Are you going to put your shirt back on?”

Laughing through a closed mouth, Anne nodded and reached for the shirt she’d forgotten she was no longer wearing.

He took a deep breath before he put a hand to her knee and began. “You’re not the first woman I’ve cared for… Nor will you be the first I’ve slept with… But that doesn’t mean this isn’t new for me. Perhaps there _is_ a part of me that wants to take things slowly. Try not to ruin—” He cleared his throat. “Try to do things right.”

She put her hand over his, smiling. For all the ways he felt himself an outcast in society, it was touching that deep down, whether he could admit it to himself or not, the traditions of courtship still mattered to him. For him, they were individual steps in the dance of a relationship; steps he’d long watched from the sidelines and memorized, shifting his feet discreetly along to the music, in the hopes that if only he could execute each one flawlessly when he finally got the chance, he too could dance.

But that was something his heart had already told her.

“That isn’t why you stopped just now,” Anne said.

“No,” he agreed, sniffing out a small, humourless laugh. “No, I suppose that had more to do with all the things I still haven’t told you. It wouldn’t be right, letting you get any more mixed up with me when you still don’t know what it is you’re actually getting yourself into. But when I tell you, when you understand how dangerous it is for you, being with me…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Well, you’ll have a choice to make. I suppose I’m not eager to hear what you decide.”

“You’re really still afraid I’ll leave? After everything we’ve been through?”

“Leave and live, stay and die…” He shrugged, looking down at the floor. “Both equally terrifying.”

She squeezed his arm, projecting self-assurance into the depths of his uncertainty. “I’m pretty sure I already have all the information I need, even if it’s not what you think I should base my decision on.” She looked up into his eyes. “But you should tell me anyway. It’s time, Sev.”

He nodded, his fingers picking absently at the pilling couch cushion. “I suppose there’s no excuse to delay, now that you can guard your mind.” Severus stared off into space for another moment, then closed his eyes, exhaling. “I don’t even know where to begin. I’ve never told this to anyone before.”

“You should start with her—with the woman you lost. The one you’re still in love with.” 

His eyes came open in an instant, whirling to her, and Anne smiled gently back. _Of course_ she knew his feelings for this other person, this treasured woman who was etched across his skin like scar tissue. He ran his fingers along that damaged part of himself each and every day to remember her, the good and the bad. Her mark would never fade, and he would never want it to, and that was okay. That was love.

“Tell me about her,” Anne said, shifting herself closer to wrap her arm around his. “How you met. What she was like. She used to call you Sev too, right?”

He nodded, staring out blankly at the stacked canvases on the other side of the room. “You would have liked her,” he said very quietly. 

As always, when he thought of this person who meant so much to him, there was a tangle of feelings in him, twisting and snagging as he tugged on the individual threads: love, longing, regret, fear, grief. Anne watched him as the minutes passed, waiting patiently as he traced his way down through the knot, trying to find his way back to its core.

At last, the knot loosed and he began to speak.

“I was only nine the first time I saw Lily,” Severus said, “but I remember it like it was yesterday. She was sitting by herself on a tree stump at the edge of an overgrown lot, twirling a daisy in her hand, and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

* * *

“But why would he enter his _own_ name?” Anne leaned forward for the pot on the coffee table and poured herself another brimming mugful of pitch-black tea. “Sure, if it was just a lark and there was nothing at stake, I totally get it. But after everything that’s happened, it would just be reckless and stupid. Granted, I don’t know Harry very well.”

“He’s reckless and stupid,” Severus assured her. “I can’t tell you what a disappointment he was to me the first time I met him. You look at him, and for a split second it’s like Lily’s staring out at you through his eyes. But then, invariably, he opens his mouth—” He sneered. “—and James Potter comes swaggering out.”

Anne took a sip of her tea, winced at the temperature and set her mug down on the table. “If you really need to know, why not just look into his mind?”

“Albus wants to let it lie for now. Besides, I try to keep my distance from Potter.” He ran his thumb across the side of Anne’s hand, which he realized he’d been holding for hours. “Up until now, I’ve tried to keep my distance from everyone important to me.”

A glance at the clock over the door told him that, despite the continued darkness of the full-length windows at the far end of the room, it was morning and had been for a long while. It had taken almost all night to get through everything—Lily, being a Death Eater, the prophecy, Harry—but somehow he wasn’t tired. He was a night owl, true, but it was also surprisingly energizing to finally recount all this to someone. It had been years since he’d had anyone besides Albus to talk to about anything meaningful besides potions.

Anne’s eyes, however, seemed to be propped open only by the magic of caffeine and sheer compassionate will. He’d dropped an arsenal’s worth of bombshells on her over the past several hours and, Merlin love her, she’d taken it in stride. A stride peppered with astonishment and endless questions and increasingly bloodshot eyes, of course, but a stride all the same.

Yawning, she curled herself into the couch corner across from him. “Do you want me to talk to him? If I chat him up about the tournament, I can probably sense if he’s lying or not.”

“I want you to stay out of it.” He reached down, pulling her deadweight legs up to rest across his thighs. “Just because I’m not keeping secrets anymore doesn’t mean I want you wading into the weeds with me.”

“But I could help.”

Severus shook his head. The truth (which she was likely sensing from him anyway) was that it was a tempting possibility—her empathic ability would indeed be hugely valuable to his efforts. In fact, it had occurred to him that perhaps part of the reason Albus had been so blindly supportive of their relationship was that he wanted to make use of Anne. It was a terrifying thought, and Severus pushed it quickly out of his mind. He wouldn’t have her ensnared in this trap any tighter than absolutely necessary.

“So, now you’ve told me everything,” Anne said, attempting to blink alertness back into her eyes. “Does this mean we can have sex?”

He sniffed out a short laugh. “Right now? You’re barely conscious.”

Grinning, she pressed her face into the couch back. “Stay the night then. We’ll do it in the morning.”

“No, I think I’d better go.” He slid off the side of the couch as smoothly as he could, lifting her legs and gently resting them back down on the cushion. There was a crocheted blanket draped on the back of the neighbouring chair; he reached for it and spread it over her as she turned and nestled down across the couch, her head resting on the low arm.

He sat down on the edge of the coffee table by her head, brushing her hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. “I want you to take some time and really think about all this. Really think about it.”

Anne opened her eyes in slow blinks. “I’ve made my decision. I want to be with you.”

He shook his head at her.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you again.”

“You’ll need more time than that.”

“How much more time? Three days?”

“How about a week?”

“A _week?_ ” Closing her eyes, Anne let out an exaggerated groan.

“This is important to me.” He reached to stroke the back of her hair. “I need to know that we did this properly, that you fully understand all the risks. If something were to happen to you… If you blamed me for it, if you felt I’d deceived you…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t think I could live with myself. I think it would destroy me.”

Affection and empathy bled from her as she watched his face. “Okay,” she said at last, letting her eyes fall closed again with a tired smile. “Why not? I’ve already waited five zillion years for you. What’s one more week?”

He gave a small laugh. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh?” She opened one eye.

“I’ll take you flying next week. You can give me your final answer a hundred meters above sea level.”

“Oh.” Both eyes closed and she snuggled her face deeper into the couch arm. “Okay. And then after I say yes, you’ll take me back to your place and make wild, passionate love to me.”

That won her another laugh from him. “Not that that should have any bearing on your decision, but all right. If you say yes, I will.” He leaned forward to kiss the side of her head.

Anne made a sleepy _Mmm_ of agreement and he could feel her consciousness starting to slip. “But just so you know, Sev, I made my decision a long time ago. Your heart gave me the answer to the most important question.”

“Did it?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And what was that?”

She said nothing for a moment, and he thought perhaps she’d fallen asleep. Then, jerking slightly, she asked with closed eyes: “Is it a noble cause?”

Severus smiled sadly. “Yes. I believe it is.”

“Me too.”

A few seconds later, the projection told him she’d finally succumbed to sleep. It was a strangely familiar sensation of weight and surrealism, a kaleidoscope of muted feeling distorted through the heavy fog of unconsciousness.

Severus sat there a few minutes longer, watching her. He wanted to remember how peaceful her face looked at this moment, preserve it in his mind for whatever lay ahead. Would she come to her senses and leave him after all, leave him holding onto this memory of her? Or would she join him, as she already attested she would, and let him carve lines of worry and misery into the smoothness of her untroubled brow? Was he asking her to give up her own happiness for him?

It was excruciating, loving someone this deeply.

Anne smiled in her sleep. “I love you too,” she murmured.


	22. Don't Ruin This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rolanda Hooch stood in the center of the pitch, her bristles-up broom planted on the ground for her to lean against and a heavy wooden clipboard clasped in her muscular age-spotted hand. Eight students waited in a cue beside her to check out brooms.
> 
> Severus marched past the line of teenagers. “We’re here to borrow a broom,” he said to the old witch.
> 
> Silver eyebrows raising, she gave him a long, amused look. Then gave Anne one. Then Severus again. “ _One_ broom?” she asked at last.

Two girls flew directly overhead, the first leaning back on one arm to chat to the second, who rode side-saddle. Anne waved up to them as she crossed the grounds from the lake toward the Quidditch pitch, but they sailed past, deep in conversation and looking like they’d both been born on broomsticks. _Must be nice to be such a sure flyer._

Then, like a familiar scent, she sensed her own sure flyer. Her eyes scanned for him, until he stepped out from a tree a few yards ahead and strode toward the pitch, his black cloak snapping behind him.

Silently as she could, Anne ran to catch up. When she reached him, she hopped forward to step on the back of his shoe. The spike of fury as he whirled made her burst out laughing.

Severus’s wrath rolled over along with his eyes as he saw who it was. Calming, but still shaking his head, he demanded: “Why are you coming from this direction?”

“Well hello to you too!” Nudging his elbow, she fell into step with him. It took everything in her power not to reach for his hand—she’d promised to keep their relationship private for now, but it was hard when she could sense how badly he needed to be touched. The man was positively starved for physical contact, though he didn’t seem to know it. “I just walked all the way to the train station and back. It's such a beautiful day.”

“Bit brisk for flying.” He pulled his cloak tighter against the sharp November wind, a draft of irritation wafting off him.

A flock of riders flew out from the bleachers overhead, but Anne didn’t look up; she was too busy searching Severus’s drawn face. “What’s wrong?” She looked back at the tree he’d stepped out from. “Where are _you_ coming from?”

He huffed through his long nose. “I walked around back so we wouldn’t be coming from the same direction. People are already going to see us flying off together, I didn’t want them to see us walk into the stadium together as well.”

Anne stopped, just before the scaffolding between the bleachers (left bare this year, with no games being played). “Do you want me to wait?”

“No, come on,” he urged in a hushed tone, waving to rush her forward. “It’s too late now.” With a slight head jerk, he motioned inside the pitch, where Rolanda Hooch and several snickering students had already caught sight of them.

Anne stepped forward and the two of them crossed through the scaffolding together.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s fine,” he whispered back. His emotions didn’t entirely agree.

Rolanda stood in the center of the pitch, her bristles-up broom planted on the ground for her to lean against and a heavy wooden clipboard clasped in her muscular age-spotted hand. Eight students waited in a cue beside her to check out brooms.

Severus marched past the line of teenagers. “We’re here to borrow a broom,” he said to the old witch.

Silver eyebrows raising, she gave him a long, amused look. Then gave Anne one. Then Severus again. _“One_ broom?” she asked at last.

He shot her what Anne had come to think of as his _warning look,_ and answered in a faintly crisper tone. “Anne has expressed a wish to see the grounds by air. Given her previous flying mishap, I think you’ll agree she needs an escort. One broom will suffice.”

Rolanda leaned back slightly against her broom, no more intimidated than if he’d been one of her students (perhaps he had been). “Awfully kind of you, taking her.”

“I asked him,” Anne piped. “I was telling him about how I fell off my broom this year and he told me how he goes flying sometimes. So I asked him to take me. It was my idea.”

She felt her face begin to redden as it fell under the hawklike gaze of the Quidditch coach. Oh griffins, why couldn’t she keep it together? If it was for a surprise or a prank, Anne could spin the most ridiculous yarn and not so much as bob the needle of a lie detector, but as soon as she felt the slightest guilt or nervousness, it showed plainly on her face.

Severus, on the other hand, didn't even bother lying. “We’re holding up the line,” he pointed out. “One broom, please.”

Rolanda smirked at him before glancing down at her clipboard. “Fourteen years, I’ve never seen you fly with anyone. Not even with two brooms.”

“Except when he reffed Quidditch,” Anne blurted, then wished she hadn’t. Both faces turned to her again. “I mean, that’s what I heard. From the students. I knew he could fly, that’s why I asked Sev to take me.” The instant the name came out of her mouth, a shot of alarm fired from behind Severus’s stone-solid countenance.

 _“Sev?”_ Rolanda’s eyebrows rocketed.

Anne’s face blazed as she sensed the first full wave of true vexation crash through him. Merlin’s beard, this was supposed to be an important day for them and she’d gone and spoiled everything with her big, blabbering mouth.

Then a man’s voice called to her from across the field, and she realized Severus’s current aggravation wasn’t directed at her at all.

“Anne? I thought that was you!” Brock Haberdash jogged across the pitch, sandy curls bouncing against his sun-browned cheekbones.

Oh, good griffins.

“You’re going flying?” he asked, grinning at her like a golden retriever.

Anne swallowed and tried to smile naturally. “Severus is taking me around the grounds.”

Rolanda settled her full weight against her broom to watch this drama unfold, ignoring the growing grumbles of the students waiting in cue. Severus glanced briefly, imploringly, to the heavens.

“Oh, Anne.” Brock put a hand to her arm, his head tilted in sympathy. “I know things with us didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, but we’re still friends, right? You know I’ll still take you flying anytime you want. You don’t have to go begging around for any old person.” He gestured to Anne’s escort.

Severus huffed. “I’m hardly a neophyte at flying.”

“Right?” Brock said, smiling to thank him for the point. Turning back to Anne: “You can fly with a _real_ neophyte anytime you like. I’d be happy to take you.” He gave her arm a gentle shake for emphasis. “Anytime.”

“That’s very nice of you, Brock,” Anne muttered, racking her brain for a tactful exit as the last threads binding Severus’s temper wore thin.

Too late. He stepped forward, snarling.

And bumped his chest against Rolanda’s out-thrust broom handle.

“Take this one,” she ordered, pressing her broom into his hands, “And have it back by five. Now for Merlin’s sake, go. Quit holding up my line.”

Anne beamed her most grateful smile at her. Calling back thanks, she pulled Severus away, careful to grab for the bottom of the broom and not his hand. She led him across the pitch as quickly as she could.

Rolanda hollered after them: “Have a nice flight, _Sev.”_

“I’m sorry,” Anne whispered.

“It’s fine,” he answered, though it wasn’t. Planting his feet, he pulled them to a stop and swung one leg over the broom. “Just get on.”

She hesitated a moment before she climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist as formally as she could (several student heads had turned in their direction). Though she trusted Severus’s restraint, pressing herself this close to him when he was boiling over with rage was a bit unnerving, like reaching to pet a puffed, hissing cat.

But take-offs were scarier; every muscle in her body, including the ones holding onto him, tensed up tight when their feet left the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Anne said again, projecting her regret as they crested the bleacher border of the pitch. From this height, she could see Hagrid’s hut in the distance ahead of them. “I can’t believe I called you that in front of Rolanda. I guess I just got nervous. And then Brock—”

“It’s fine,” he snapped again. Then, sighing heavily, he added: “It really is fine. I’m angry, I know. But can we just—will you just give me a minute? Can we not talk for a minute?”

“Okay.”

The Forbidden Forest was rushing by beneath them. Anne’s eyes flicked across tiny glimpses of the forest floor between the trees, but her mind was on Severus, watching him war against himself. 

There were some people, her empathic sense had shown her, who went through life with stress and misery seeming to roll right off them. Oh, they felt it— _everyone_ felt it—but it didn’t stick to them very long. As soon as the moment was over, they shook it off their coats like a wet dog.

Not so with Severus. For him (and many others), the minor blows of the day were like arrows flung into his side, tiny cuts that could accumulate into a festering wound if he didn’t seek out some manner of healing—a rest, a walk outside, even a bit of quiet. One too many arrows, and the last unlucky archer would suffer repayment for the full onslaught. _Does Sev know that about himself?_

“I have a bad temper,” he said after a minute, his voice quiet but still strained. “I always have. I get angry and I say things or do things… I ruin things.” Shame and regret pulsed through him as he put a hand over one of hers around his waist. “I don’t want to ruin today.”

Squeezing him tighter, Anne rested her cheek against his back. It didn’t dissipate his anger, but it helped.

They passed the forest line and curved around the tower of the owlery, a pearly white owl dropping from its summit to glide beside them for a stretch. They flew over the shining roofs of the green houses, past the side of the castle with the library and the window to her apartment. The wind barred its icy teeth when they cleared the shoreline and sailed out over the fathomless black depths of the lake, but it only made the day seem clearer and brighter. 

Anne squinted down at sunlight dancing on the surface of the water. It was the first time since her fall she’d ridden a broom and not felt afraid.

They dipped and slowed past the rocky lagoon where they’d shared their first kiss. The last of the white water lilies were now long finished, but she remembered where they’d been, where she and Severus had stood, what they’d talked about. It made her smile.

Lifting her chin high against his shoulder, she said in his ear: “Thank you for this.”

And maybe it was the view, or maybe it was all her wonder whirling across the projection to him, but slowly, she felt the dense ball of ire in Severus’s stomach begin to break.

* * *

“If I _ever_ caught a student doing this,” he said, holding tightly to Anne’s hand, “I would personally tar and feather them before they were expelled.” 

“So you’ve never been up here before?” she asked, a note of alarm ringing in her voice as she shimmied behind him across the narrow beam. “How do you know it’s safe?”

“I have been, and it isn’t.” Steadying himself with the stick of his broom resting on a shingle, Severus crouched and sat on the beam, then guided Anne carefully down beside him. “But the view is worth it.”

From up here on the peak of the Great Hall roof, they could see the full expanse of the lake, with rolling black hills silhouetted against the fog of the greying sky. The sun broke through lacunas in the cloud cover here and there, streaming spotlights down to grace random patches of the landscape: a hill, an acre of forest, a stretch of water.

Anne laced her arm through his. “It’s so beautiful.”

It was, but he preferred to watch the awe on her face instead. He’d known she would appreciate this spot, precarious and ill-advised though it was. When he’d thought about this moment, pictured it, planned for it, this was the only place that felt right. It was the only setting that fit the grandeur and gravity of what they were here to discuss, of what he wanted to tell her. This could well be the most important day of his entire life; he could afford it a little ambience.

“Anne, I…” His words stuck in his mouth as the first flakes of snow billowed down around them.

Severus almost groaned. Were the fates conspiring against him to ruin this day? Snickering students, a meddling old crone, Brock banshee-buggering Haberdash, and now an unseasonably cold November afternoon turned to an actual bloody snowfall. What a dark comedy his life was.

A snap of delight hit him from Anne, who smiled and shook her head.

“No, it’s wonderful,” she said, extending her hand out. “I didn’t think it snowed here. It reminds me of back home.” Fat white puffs floated down onto her open palm and melted into droplets.

Severus cleared his throat and began again: “Anne, I brought you here to ask your answer to—”

“It’s the same as it was a week ago.” She looked over at him, dots of snow collecting in her dark eyelashes. “Same as it was two weeks ago, same as it was three. I want us to be together.”

“And you understand the danger?”

Anne gave an exhausted huff.

“Not even the danger—you understand everything you might be giving up?” Sighing, Severus turned toward her, hesitating a moment to remember the words he’d chosen. “There is no promise of a future with me. When the Dark Lord returns, who knows how he’ll treat his deserted followers? When we meet again, he may simply kill me on sight. And if he doesn’t, if he takes me back into his fold… It may still mean the end for us. I’ll have to be a Death Eater again, for as long as it takes to win this war.”

He shook his head, struggling to set loose the fears that had been caged in him. “While Voldermort lives, I can never truly put you first, and you _deserve_ to be put first. There’s so much I can’t give you until this is all over, and I may be dead by then. Sharing a life with someone, marriage, a family… If these things matter to you, you need to be honest with yourself now and go and seek them with someone else. You might waste years of your life on me, important years, and have nothing in the end.

“It hurts me to even ask this of you, Anne…” Swallowing, he reached for her hand and held it pressed to his heart. “Because I love you. Because your happiness means more to me than my own and I would rather have you leave and be truly happy than stay and destroy your life for me.” He looked deep into her eyes, challenging her. “Tell me I’m lying.”

“You’re not.” Tears rolled down the sides of her face, curving into the creases of her smile. She shouldn’t be smiling now, no matter what she intended to answer him. How could she possibly smile and radiate such joy after the dismal future he’d just foretold for them?

“You have so much love in you,” Anne said, almost gasped. “I don’t think you realize how much.” As she studied his face, something wistful and painful and wonderful flashed across the projection from her, too complex for him to parse. “It would make me happy, to be with someone who can love like that. Someone selfless and brave and brilliant. Someone who will put me above himself, but never above what’s right. Loving someone like that is worth the risk, and I do love you, Sev.” The truth and conviction behind her words blazed across the projection and his own eyes began to sting.

“Futures are never promised,” she said with a small, sad shrug, “except by fools and politicians. None of us know what lies ahead for us, when we’ll die. Griffins, we might both fall off this roof.” She broke his gaze to glance out across the lake, just as the last lingering gap in the clouds closed out the sun; then she turned back to him, smiling. “But sometimes it’s worth taking the risk to experience something beautiful.”

His throat was so tight he felt choked. “And what happens if—”

 _“Enough,_ Severus.” With an exasperated laugh, she reached and put a hand to the side of his face. “I’m all in. That’s my final answer. Accept it and promise you won’t ask me again.”

Her smile was so sweet then, the smile of someone who dared to hope. It was the smile of a woman who leapt through life in the unshakable trust that someone would catch her, or she would land with sure footing, or fall on soft ground, and by the grace of the universe it had always been so. She would smile that sweet, hopeful smile at him right to the end, even as she climbed willingly down into the grave he had dug for her.

And damn his own selfish heart if he didn’t nod then, and let her. “I promise,” he murmured.

Gently, she pulled his mouth down toward hers, sweet and salty from her drying tears. Her hair was damp with melted snow, its strands cold and tangling between his fingers. Reaching, he pulled her under his cloak with him and ran his hand up and down her length, warming her.

It lit a spark. 

“Take me home,” Anne whispered to him.

* * *

She reached for him the second the door to his apartment closed, her fingers sending jolts of electricity through him as they spread across his collarbones, scratched across his chest. Severus gasped, the full weight of her desire hitting him and ricocheting back along the empathic connection with magnified force. 

Anne grinned, watching the ecstasy flash across his face. She had no intention of holding back her ability, this time. _And not ever again. We've waited too long for this moment to hold back._

She tugged him forward by the clasp of his cloak and he came willingly, pressing her up against the door. As she undid the clasp and started on his shirt buttons, his mouth went to her jawline, her ear, her neck, every touch sending shivers coursing through her and across to him. His hands slid up underneath her thin sweater and she paused for him pull it up and over her head, letting it fall on the floor beside the coat she’d thrown down the moment they’d entered.

She pulled him in close against her, their bodies pressed and rocking together. When they kissed, the thrill of her tongue along his lip made him shudder.

“This isn’t going to last very long,” he warned her, panting. “Not if it's this intense.”

“Doesn’t need to. I’m ready.” She pulled his hand down to where she wanted it, to the place that sent shockwaves rippling out across her entire body.

He moaned, feeling how good it was, his weight pressed against her and the heat of his breath condensing on the back of her neck. He was everywhere, filling her senses, the scent of him like black pepper and summer forest, dark and earthy. His hunger for her blazed white-hot, searing out every other thought and colour in her mind. Oh griffins, he wanted her, he wanted her so badly, it was so good—

“No,” Severus said suddenly, pulling back with a restraint that was dizzying, almost nauseating. He had to steady himself with a hand against the wall. “It’s our first time. We’re going to do this properly, not have it off in a doorway like drunks.”

Anne reached for him. “Who cares where—”

“Bedroom,” he ordered, taking her by the wrist. It was exciting, his forcefulness. His strictness. 

Stripped to her skirt and bra, Anne dragged her step and let him pull her to the door at the back of the room. “Yes, sir.”

Severus grimaced, shoving an urge away. “Anne, don’t do that right now.” He dropped her wrist as they entered his bedroom.

“Why? I like it when you _—Oh nine hells, what_ are _those?”_ She shielded her eyes with her hands.

There were _things_ in this room. Things that had once been alive. Things with eyes and teeth and in some cases exposed skeletal systems, suspended in viscous green liquid inside tall glass cylinders. There were dozens of them, enough to fill the high full-width shelf that ran along the opposite wall of the room, across from the bed.

“What?” Severus followed her gaze. “The preserved specimens?”

Glancing around the rest of the room, Anne realized why he needed clarification. This bedroom was very much an extension of his forbidding front room: exposed grey mortar walls, a low window with bars across it, a candlelight chandelier constructed of black metal chains. Along the back wall, peeling cauldrons simmered over flickering flames, lined up across a row of heavy wooden chests, chained and padlocked.

For a man who got sheepish about acting dominant, his bedroom sure looked like a dungeon.

“I didn’t know where else to put them,” Severus said. His shoulders dropped as he considered his grotesque collection. “I see now that this was a poor choice.” He reached for his wand and pointed it at the wall. _“Dissimulato.”_ In a flash, the shelf of jars disappeared, giving the illusion of a plain mortar wall.

“Sorry about that,” he said, stepping towards her. “I’ll move them tomorrow.” His hands grazed her waist and ran along the exposed skin of her back. “I hope I haven’t irreparably destroyed the mood.”

Anne took a deep breath and tried to unclench her stomach. The mood was definitely destroyed.

But not irreparably. 

All it took was for him to press himself against her again, a taste of his craving as his eyes traced the tops of her breasts, and her flame rekindled. Moments later, her hips were moving on their own instincts once more, rolling in against him like waves.

Gripping her thighs, he lifted her and set her down in the black sheets of his bed, climbing in after her. He slid her skirt up and touched her again where she pulsed and ached for him. She arched herself harder into his caresses and they both moaned.

“Pull my hair,” she breathed, wrestling with his belt buckle.

The idea excited him, but he pushed it away. “Please don’t say things like that right now.”

She leaned forward to nip the edge of his jaw. “I like when you’re rough with me. Like you were at my apartment.”

He liked the idea too, very much—an exquisite urge flashed through him like lightning—but he swallowed it down again.

“Stop,” Severus whispered, climbing on top of her. “Anne, don’t ruin this.” He pressed his mouth over hers before she could say another word.


	23. Beckoning the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus's eyes drifted past the pillow to an item resting on the far nightstand that turned his stomach: an ornate golden bell with a black oak handle. Merlin’s beard, how had he let her sleep so close to that? What if she had touched it—would she have felt anything?
> 
> Stretching forward, Severus slid the bell off the stand surface and into the top drawer. Then he glanced around the rest of the room, his heart sinking. No wonder Anne’s mind had screamed bloody murder when she walked in—this wasn’t a bedroom, it was a lair. It was a dark cavern for some hateful wretch to creep back to each night and sleep alone, dreaming wicked dreams of ambition and revenge.
> 
> That’s not who he was anymore. Perhaps it was time he started showing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUESTION FOR READERS: I'm not super experienced with fan fiction and the various tags that apply to it. To anyone who's read this far in the story: does this count as fluff? Smut? Both or neither? Something else? I'm not sure what tags I should be adding to the work to set up accurate reader expectations.

Severus opened his eyes, for what felt like the first time. It was the same room he’d woken to for the past fourteen years, the same drab, unadorned walls and faintly musty air. It was the same overly firm bed with the same tall bed posts and black sheets. It was all exactly the same, except for him.

He felt new. Reborn.

Turning, he faced the right side of his bed. It was empty—as it had always been—but hints of Anne lingered like a pink sky after sunset: her scent, a long brown hair across the pillow. There was also a faint feeling from her, contented and concentrated; she’d gotten out of bed, but she was still somewhere in his apartment.

His eyes drifted past the pillow to an item resting on the far nightstand that turned his stomach: an ornate golden bell with a black oak handle. Merlin’s beard, how had he let her sleep so close to that? What if she had touched it—would she have felt anything?

Stretching forward, Severus slid the bell off the stand surface and into the top drawer. Why had he even kept the vile thing after all this time? Perhaps at one time he’d intended to make a statement with it, but those years were long passed. Godric, was he _sentimental_ about it? That was a sickening thought, for multiple reasons.

He glanced around the rest of the room, his heart sinking. The blank wall he’d charmed to conceal his collection of gruesome jarred specimens, the green gleam of the cauldrons, the facade of rotten leather-bound books—no wonder Anne’s mind had screamed bloody murder when she walked in! This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a lair. It was a dark cavern for some hateful wretch to creep back to each night and sleep alone, dreaming wicked dreams of ambition and revenge.

That’s not who he was anymore. Perhaps it was time he started showing it.

Severus rolled out of bed, reaching for his black night robe. He stepped out into the marginally brighter light of his main room.

Anne was curled up in his armchair, reading. She wore the same long, thin sweater she’d come in yesterday, but the legs tucked beneath her on the cushion were bare. She fiddled with a strand of her long hair as she read, a tiny crease winking between her eyebrows as she scanned the page. Her beauty had a keenness to it, like the vivid detail of a clear photograph, when she took on this rare expression of seriousness.

When she sensed him, her face softened suddenly to its usual camaraderie. “Good morning,” she said, looking up.

“You know, I could get used to this,” he said, crossing the room to her. “A gorgeous, half-naked woman nestled in my favourite chair, reading—” He flipped up the cover of the journal. _“—Antidotal Potential of Cutaneous Secretions in Red-Spotted Toads._ Mmm. Very sexy.” He leaned down to kiss the side of her head.

“Found it on the chair. It’s actually pretty interesting. Tea?” Anne gestured to the steaming teapot on the low table beside her.

 _“Accio teacup,”_ he said, flicking his wand. He shifted a pile of books off a nearby chair and pulled it to sit beside her, pouring himself a cup.

Anne rested the journal down in her lap. “Sev, I wanted to talk to you about last night...” A hesitant glint of discomfort blinked across the projection from her.

“Oh dear.” He blew the steam off the surface of his cup. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It was wonderful—you know it was. You know how much I enjoyed it.” Indeed, a tiny ripple of excitement shot through her as she remembered just how much she’d enjoyed it.

“But?”

She sighed. “What’s up with you and the dominance stuff?”

He gulped down a sip of scalding tea, wincing. Apparently the remnants of his dark past weren’t limited to his home decor; they were also on full display in his mind.

“I can sense that you like it,” Anne continued, “but you keep pushing it away every time I suggest it. That time in my apartment, you—”

“That was an Occlumency technique, Anne. It was a mental state I entered to help deaden my emotions. That wasn’t _me.”_

“But it is. It’s a part of you.”

“It’s not who I am anymore.”

Anne shook her head, her forehead wrinkling. “There’s a lot going on inside of you right now. I can’t make sense of it.” She searched his face. “Do you think you’ll scare me? Did I seem scared in my apartment, when you took control? Didn’t you feel how much I wanted it last night?”

Severus downed the tea, scorching his throat. The empathic connection was wonderfully intimate, but it also made them both forget how little they really knew about one another. He couldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine what it must have been like to grow up loved and sheltered, like Anne. It’s no wonder the tiny taste she’d had of his dark side had whetted her appetite—she was like a child splashing carefree in the shallow surf of a treacherous sea. She knew nothing of cruelty or pain or perversion. Nothing of the monster she was tempting up from the depths of him.

“It’s not who I am anymore,” he repeated firmly, resting down his cup. 

Glancing into her lap, Anne gave a disappointed nod. 

The urge would pass. It would pass in her, and eventually, if he was vigilant, it would pass in him too.

Severus slid off the chair onto his knees on the floor beside her chair, reaching to guide her face down to his. As he kissed her, he concentrated his mind on everything he _did_ want her to feel from him: love, adoration, desire, respect. Let these be enough for her. Let him foster these stringy seedlings in himself and grow into the man she deserved.

She reached for the ties of his robe.

“I’m afraid that’ll have to wait,” he said, pulling her hands off him (and ignoring the thrill that pulsed through her when he did). “I have an arena to inspect. The First Task is this week.”

“Do it later. It’s Sunday.” She leaned forward to kiss him again, pushing her weight against the hands he had holding hers back. Damn the dragons if it didn’t stir something in him.

“I promised Albus.” He stood, releasing her. “I have to shower and go, but by all means, please make yourself at home. Finish your article. Have more tea.”

“Sev?” she called to him as he headed back to his room. When he turned, she was standing, the bottom of her sweater hiked up above her hips. She grinned at him. “Can I join you?”

“It's just an empty arena. They haven't even decorated it yet.”

She laughed. “In the shower.”

“Ah.” Severus considered the thought with a head tilt and a small smile. “Now there’s an idea.”

She crossed the room to him, pulling her sweater over her head.

A thought occurred to him and he held out a hand to her. “Actually—will you give me a minute? Let me give it a quick once-over before you come in.”

“Please tell me you don’t keep those jars in your shower too.” Anne shuddered.

“No, no, of course not. But just wait here a moment?” He hurried off to hide the gorgon scalp he’d left draped to dry over his showerhead.

* * *

“Long time no see,” the owner of the dingy Eye of Newt pub in Hogsmeade said with a toothless smirk. She was a boney old witch with eyes so badly cataracted it was indeed doubtful she’d seen _anything_ in a long time. “Thought you’d wound up in Azkaban with the rest of them.”

Severus tossed a small jangling pouch onto the bar counter in front of her. If memory served him, coin was courtesy enough to bypass her chitchat.

The witch picked up the pouch, shrugged, and stomped her foot twice. At the side of the counter, a section of floorboard faded to reveal stairs leading down to the dark cellar.

“Got one waiting for you already,” she said as his foot touched the first step. Severus crept his way down the creaking stairs, the gap in the floor closing the second his head passed beneath it. 

The cellar was dimmer and dirtier than he’d remembered it, packed with crates and sparsely lit by low candles in scones along the cobblestone walls. At the back of the room, beneath a small boarded-up window, Lucius Malfoy sat drumming his fingers on a long table, leaving prints in the dust coating its surface.

“Thank you for coming,” Severus said, taking the chair across from him.

“I figured it must be important, since you chose _this_ place. Unless you’re just feeling nostalgic for the good old days?” Noticing the dust on his fingers, Lucius sneered and reached for his handkerchief to wipe them.

From under his cloak, Severus pulled out the golden bell that had lived on his nightstand for over a decade. It chimed softly as he set it down on the table between them.

Lucius stared at it a moment, his brow furrowing. “Is that what I think it is?”

Severus nodded.

With an astonished laugh, Lucius put a hand to his face. “The Beast’s Beckon. I’d forgotten all about it.” He looked up, eyes widening. “Does this mean you’ve finally salvaged the rest of the incantation? Can you summon it?”

“No. Unfortunately, the plating is too badly damaged. No matter how I heat it, I can’t get the inscription to show legibly.”

“Why bring it here, then?” Lucius picked up the bell; it wasn’t too fearsome to touch, apparently, as long as it remained unusable.

“I’ve kept it too long already, out of hubris. Try as I might, I can’t solve it. I thought perhaps you would make a better master to it.”

“You flatter me, Severus. I’ve never had your mind for these kinds of riddles.”

Severus couldn’t keep a small smile from his lips. True, he could deduce and decipher circles around Lucius—it was the very reason he’d chosen to give him the indestructible bell: the Malfoy family would never be able to puzzle out the incantation to release the trapped demon, and their greed over such items ensured it would never pass into more skilled hands. But it wasn’t smugness that made Severus smile; it was the gratification of being praised for his intellect by the hero of his youth. Lucius had been the first to recognize Severus’s talents, way back in their Hogwarts days when they were, respectively, prefect and prepubescent.

“Keep it as an heirloom, if nothing else,” Severus said. “I have no family to pass it on to, and Draco will appreciate its significance. Besides, you were there with me the night I stole it. It belongs to you just as much as it does to me.”

“That night…” Lucius shook his head, laughing. “I must admit, I didn’t see your full potential until that night. You were a bit of an odd child, you know. Those tattered clothes. And you were so scrawny.”

His mouth stretching in a grim line, Severus nodded to hurry the point along.

“You were the only one of us who could squeeze through the bars,” Lucius continued, his eyes wandering off in memory. “And it’s a good thing, because I know now you were the only one of us who could have cracked the guard spells without getting your head hexed off. Watching you walk out of that tomb, ringing the Beast’s Beckon over your head—that was the moment I knew you were something special."

Severus glanced away, swallowing hard. In spite of himself, that night still meant something to him. It had shaped him. It was the first time he'd known what it was to belong, the first time anyone but Lily had seen something of value in him. 

But that was a long time ago, and all those friends had grown up to be Death Eaters. Why should that memory still hold such power over him? If he’d truly changed as a person, why did the voicing of Lucius Malfoy's approval still make his chest rise? 

“I vouched for you to the Dark Lord,” Lucius said, “and I’ll do it again. Soon, I think.” He tugged his sleeve up just high enough to show the edge of his Dark Mark. It had grown clearer, just as Severus’s had. “We’ve both done what we needed to do to keep out of Azkaban, to survive. If we show the Dark Lord the work we’ve kept committed to all these years, if we vouch for one another, he will understand. He’ll welcome us back. I know it.”

“I agree,” Severus said, his eyes trapped by the black ink on the man’s forearm. It was the first time he’d admitted to any Death Eater, even Lucius, that he believed Voldermort would return. It was the first time it had felt too inevitable to deny.

Lucius reached across the table to clap him on the arm. “The good old days are coming back. Who knows? Maybe even this dump will regain its former glory if the old crowd takes up meeting here again.” 

Severus eyed the walls of the cellar doubtfully.

“I meant to ask you,” Lucius said, “how did you enjoy the First Task? Shame Potter survived his dance with dragons—Draco wrote and told us all about it. Must have been invigorating, at least, watching the little brat almost get scorched.”

“Mmm, yes. Invigorating.” It was not the word Severus would have chosen to describe standing helplessly by as the boy he’d devoted his life to protecting staved off a Hungarian Horntail with nothing more than his bloody broomstick. Harrowing, perhaps. Agonizing.

“Not as good as the Quidditch World Cup though, hmm? You should have stuck around for the real sport. It’s been years since we’ve had any fun playing with muggles.”

Severus nodded, forcing his face to remain cordial. There it was, the stone wall hiding beneath the ivy of their fraternal rapport and reminiscing: Lucius was still a muggle-torturing Death Eater, and Severus, at heart, was not.

“Well, you were there in spirit,” Lucius said, smiling. “I thought of you through it, actually. Used a few of your spells. You’ve always had a gift for torture.”

Suppressing a wince, Severus shuffled to a stand. “I must be getting back. Thank you again for coming.”

“Thank _you.”_ Lucius raised the golden bell to him before tucking it inside his cloak. He stood from his chair, brushing the dust from himself. “I suppose I’ll see you again soon anyway. Christmas is just around the corner.”

“I’m not certain I’ll make it this year.” Severus had always rationalized Christmas with the Malfoys as a convenient way to keep tabs on the family; now that he finally had someone else to spend the holidays with, it shamed him to realize he’d gone all these years out of simple loneliness.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lucius put a hand to his shoulder. “Narcissa wouldn’t hear of it. You’re like family, Severus.”

Severus nodded, glancing away from the man he’d once secretly thought of as an older brother.

* * *

Standing with her back to him, at the side of his bed, Anne hooked her fingers into the waistband of her burgundy satin panties. Severus felt her feel him staring then, and she turned her head over her shoulder, grinning.

“Have you ever spanked anyone?” she asked, sliding the material down with deliberate slowness.

He had, but not the playful love taps she likely had in mind.

“I’ve never done anything with any woman I’ve loved,” he told her truthfully, “until you.” Reaching for her waist, he pulled her giggling into the bed with him.

He ran his hands up and down the smooth, sloping skin of her body, and she watched his face, enjoying the feeling of the response it gave him.

When he pressed in to kiss her, she turned her head away. “How about tying someone up? Have you done that? These tall bed posts are perfect for it.”

He hadn’t, but he’d fantasized about it many times.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever had in this bed,” he said, contenting himself with kissing the side of her neck. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted in it.”

* * *

His office door was open and bottles clanged from inside. Severus tore into the room, teeth bared and wand drawn.

“What in the nine hells do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

Mad-Eye Moody glanced placidly up from where he sat on a stool, elbow-deep in Severus’s storage cabinet. Scattered on the floor at his feet were various vials and vessels that had hitherto been organized by type, age and potency.

“Spot check,” Moody said, turning back to the cabinet.

Severus gaped at him. _“Spot check?_ Vandalism, more like it. You’ve broken into my office, ransacked my things. When Albus hears of this—”

“Albus gave me the authority to take whatever precautions I deem necessary to protect the school from dark wizards. _This_ is what I deem necessary.”

Digging his nails into his palm, Severus bit back a hex. Just what depth of indignity did Albus expect him to tolerate at the hands of this power-tripping hector?

“You already searched this office at the start of the year,” he said, his voice cold and quiet. “What wicked paraphernalia do you suspect I’ve smuggled in since then?”

“Smuggled in or smuggled out?” Casting the latest vial he’d pulled from the cabinet to the floor with a careless clatter, Moody stood, his bewitched eye scurrying across Severus like a centipede. “Where was it you slunk off to last night?”

“Keep your mangled nose out of my affairs.”

“The foul trinket you had stowed in your cloak is very much my affair.” He smirked, tap-tapping the ragged nail of his index finger against his glass eye. “Any Auror worth their salt knows a cursed item when they spot it. Where did you take it?”

Severus sneered at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Moody held his gaze, unblinking, for a long moment. Then, with a small laugh and a quick lick of his lips, he shrugged. “Suit yourself. Your secrets can’t guard themselves from me forever.”

Severus stepped toward him. He’d learned long ago how to deal with a bully. “You’re one to make threats. Don’t think I haven’t heard about the _unforgivable_ manner of curriculum you’re teaching in your class. What do you suppose the parents would have to say about that?”

Moody coughed out a dry laugh. “I forgot that’s the kind of man you are. The kind who aims to get his foes fired by airing out their dirty laundry. How _is_ Lupin, by the way? Not easy for werewolves to find work, especially once everyone knows their secret.” 

He stepped in closer, close enough for Severus to feel the heat of his acrid breath. “You don’t frighten me, Snape, because I see what you really are. You trot along at Albus’s feet like a good dog, but inside that traitorous heart of yours you’re still cruel and cold and sick. You’re still a Death Eater. Even Albus knows it, deep down—why else would he let me conduct these searches?”

Severus clenched his wand so hard he nearly snapped it in half. He couldn’t trust himself to open his mouth without _Sectumsempra_ coming out.

Moody stepped back, sliding a clanging pile of bottles out of his way with his foot. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour. You don’t have to stay.” He smirked. “I’ll lock up.”

Severus glared at him. “This is the last time you set foot in this room, Moody.”

Turning away with a shrug, Moody sat back at the stool. A second later, he resumed his cacophonous plundering of the cabinet.

“I keep a running inventory,” Severus told him. “If I find a single vial missing—or _broken,_ if you keep knocking them around like that—”

In answer to this warning, Moody increased the reckless force of his fumbling. Glass clanked and clattered against glass.

Huffing, Severus stormed out of his own violated office. Fueled forward by rage, he set off down the dungeon corridor like a wrecking ball. He hadn’t been this humiliated since he was a teenager, and he knew just who to take it out on. 

Albus was in for an earful.

* * *

Neville Longbottom hurried toward the Great Hall, his arms burning beneath the weight of the four books Hermione had instructed him to bring from the library. The number of books was nerve-wracking enough, but the _size_ of them was just ridiculous. Each was as thick as his forearm. How much material could one Charms exam possibly cover?

As he passed by the doorway to the dungeon, he slammed into a wall of black. His books went flying. One of them landed on his foot and he let out a yelp.

When he looked up at what he’d run into, Neville’s stomach turned to sand.

Coiled in black fabric like a vampire, Snape clasped his hand to the side of his jaw where a book had struck him. He glared at Neville, his black eyes wide and piercing like fathomless holes punched into the ice of his pale face. There were veins rising in his temples and along his neck, angry purple splotching along his hairline. When he curled his lip back in a snarl, his teeth were as sharp and hungry as any boogeyman Neville had ever huddled under his covers from as a child.

Snape slithered toward him. “You lumbering little clod,” he hissed between clenched teeth, his voice low and strained. “Do you set out each morning to inflict yourself on others or were you simply born a worthless nuisance?”

“I… I…” Neville’s mouth was wood, his legs water.

Across the foyer, Pansy Parkinson and her two girl friends snickered, leaning back against the stair bannister to watch.

“If you insist on being such a loathsome little louse,” Snape said, towering over him, “the very least you could do is scuttle out of other people’s way.”

Neville’s eyes began to sting. _Please, please, please don’t let me cry. Not here. Not in front of everyone._

“I ought to turn you into a paperweight,” Snape sneered, looking Neville up and down. “Or perhaps a tea cosy, you’re soft enough. Any item I choose would provide greater value to society than a useless crybaby who can’t turn cream into butter.”

_“Severus!”_

They both flinched and turned. Professor Swanson stood gaping in horror at the top of the foyer stairs, her jaw dropped and her hand clasped over her heart. She broke into a run toward them, staring daggers at Snape.

“Anne, I…” Snape staggered backwards a step, his hand curling over his mouth. “Let me explain…”

“Neville, come with me.” She reached to put an arm around Neville’s shoulder, turning him away from his tormenter and leading him back towards the stairs.

Footsteps followed behind them. “Anne, wait. Just give me a chance—”

 _“Do_ not _follow me!”_ She whirled, snarling at Snape like a lioness. She glared at him as though she might tear out his throat, her eyes alone sharp enough to draw blood. “I’m so mad, so disgusted… I can’t even look at you right now.”

Snape's arms fell to his sides, his eyes clenching shut. Neville had never imagined the sinister man who haunted his nightmares could look so small, so breakable. So human. It was almost pitiable.

Professor Swanson guided Neville up the stairs, her arm firm and comforting across his shoulders. “This isn’t the first time, is it? The first time he's talked to you like that?”

Neville didn’t dare open his mouth, for fear of bawling like a baby, but he shook his head.


	24. A Good Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chewing her lip, Anne hesitated a moment. “I don’t know if you’ve heard already. About what happened this morning in the—”
> 
> “I’ve heard. Everyone’s heard.” Hermione gave her a sad smile. “Thank you for stopping it. It’s monstrous, the way Snape treats Neville, and it’s gone on years too long.”
> 
> Anne covered her mouth with her hand. _Years. Severus, how could you?_

Hermione Granger was tucked behind a mountain of books at a long table at the back of the library, the first place Ron Weasley had suggested checking. She was bent forward, her nose almost pressed to the open book on the table in front of her and her mind chugging like a freight train.

Anne crossed the last aisle to her and pulled up a chair. “Do you have a minute?”

The girl sat up, eyes widening in surprise. “Oh. Of course.”

Chewing her lip, Anne hesitated a moment. “I don’t know if you’ve heard already. About what happened this morning in the—”

“I’ve heard. Everyone’s heard.” Hermione gave her a sad smile. “Thank you for stopping it. It’s monstrous, the way Snape treats Neville, and it’s gone on years too long.”

Anne covered her mouth with her hand. _Years. Severus, how could you?_

“I asked Neville about it,” she said, “but it’s hard getting him to talk. He’s so frightened of angering Snape, and he… Well, he gets a bit nervous around me too.” Poor Neville had so many feelings inside him, including an almost debilitating crush on her, it was next to impossible to sift out anything helpful. “I thought you might be a good person to ask. You’re in Neville’s Potions class and you’re a good… I really trust your judgement, Hermione. I know you’ll tell me the truth.”

Hermione’s smile blossomed, then wilted into seriousness. “Snape’s horrible, to everyone. He’s said some pretty rotten things to me too lately.” She glanced down, a sharp resentment stabbing through her heart as she touched her fingers absently to her upper lip. “But he’s always singled out Neville. It’s like it’s a game to him, scaring him. Humiliating him.”

“So you’ve heard him say things like that to Neville before? Like what he said in the foyer?”

Sighing, Hermione nodded. “He says little things all the time, even in front of other teachers. If Neville messes something up, Snape makes sure everyone sees it. And one time he almost made Neville poison his pet toad.”

“Griffins.” Anne put her head in her hands. This was bad. This was really bad. “Why does Dumbledore allow someone like that to teach?”

“I don’t know. He trusts him, for some reason.” Hermione’s eyes went faraway, her mind taking up the same concentrated feeling she’d had at her studying, as if she were skimming through the pages of her own memory. “Snape’s helped us in the past. There’ve been times Ron and Harry and I’ve gotten into trouble, and I thought he was out to get us, but he was actually helping.” Coming back to herself, Hermione shrugged. “I’ve never been able to make sense of it.”

Anne’s shoulders sank. That was _it?_ As long as Severus swore to protect Harry, that was deed enough for Albus to let him emotionally abuse the rest of the students? What kind of school _was_ this?

“What’s been happening isn’t okay,” she told Hermione, “and it stops now. I’ll see to it myself. If you ever hear that man say anything like that again—to any student—I want you to come and tell me.”

Hermione nodded, staring at her in cautious awe.

“Thanks for your help.” Anne stood and turned to leave.

Then a sudden impulse came over her, and she turned back. Severus would be furious at her if he found out, but Severus’s feelings had suddenly ceased to matter.

She pulled out the chair and sat back down. “Did Harry put his own name in the Goblet of Fire?”

* * *

It took all afternoon just to test that every bottle contained what its label claimed it did—he didn’t trust Moody not to switch them out for tap water—and it would surely take all evening to put them back into their cabinet in the proper arrangement. Severus welcomed the distraction. Anything that would help pull his mind from the contemptuous look on the face of the woman he loved as she finally caught a glimpse of the monster inside of him.

They could move on from this, though, couldn't they? Once Anne calmed down, they'd talked about it and he'd promise her whatever he needed to promise her and she'd still love him, wouldn't she?

He didn't know what to do with all the anxiety that thought kicked up in him, so he swallowed it and reached for another bottle.

A knock rapped on his office door. If it was Moody come back to taunt him some more, Merlin help him if he’d be able to swallow his curses this time.

“Enter.”

Anne pushed through the door, her arms folded across her chest in a way that looked as much protective as it did hostile. Her face was held hard against him—angry? Hateful? He didn’t know; she wasn’t projecting to him. That couldn’t be a good sign.

“Anne…” He tossed down the vial in his hand and stepped toward her. “Thank you for giving me a chance—”

She held up her hand, stopping him. “The way you acted today was completely unacceptable. If I ever hear that you’ve said something like that to any student ever again, I will do everything in my power to have you fired. If Albus won’t do it, I’ll resign in protest. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

She gave a small nod, glancing down at the floor. Then, shaking her head at him, she asked: _“Why,_ Severus?”

"I was upset. Moody broke into my office—you can see what a mess he made of it—"

"Four years. _Four years_ you've been picking on Neville."

His words caught in his throat. He had an excuse, but not for _that._

“I... I don’t know," he stammered. "I don’t know what makes me say those kinds of things...” His only hope was that the shame and remorse flooding off him would sway her. Or that she, with her empathic talents, could make some meaning of the mess of other feelings in him that had confused and compelled him his entire life.

“Do you have any idea what you were doing to that poor kid?”

Severus swallowed hard. “I imagine it was—”

“No, wait. Let me show you.” Anne closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. She stood there in silence for a long moment, her arms and shoulders slowly curling in tighter against her body. Tiny tenses of emotion passed across her face like fish flashing beneath the surface of a murky pond. 

When she projected, he thought he might be sick.

Terror and humiliation poured in, so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe. It was like being stripped naked, all his weaknesses and insecurities turned out for everyone to see and prod and laugh at. He desperately wanted to pull these shameful parts of himself back in, to bury them, but he was frozen in fear. He was helpless and cowardly and pathetic and everyone could see it and they licked their jaws at him, waiting for him to fall.

The feeling was all too familiar. It was intolerable.

Wincing, Severus shielded his mind against it.

“Don’t you dare!” Anne snapped at him. “Neville couldn’t block this out. I had to stand there with him through it and I couldn’t block it out—you don’t get to either. _Open,_ Severus.”

His mouth fell open a second—he almost begged her—and then he forced his mind to unshield again.

Anne’s anger provided a brief instant of relief, and then it was back. _This_ feeling. Godric, how could she bear it? There was nothing he wouldn’t say or do to avoid this feeling, to fend it off or drown it out. He would rather die than feel this. It was worse than any physical pain, worse than any agony he’d ever suffered in his whole life, save one: losing the person he loved. So he fought himself and stayed open.

It lasted for an eternity, and then it finally stopped.

“How can you stand it?” he gasped, steadying himself against the cabinet. “You purposely called that up in yourself. You made yourself relive it.”

“Everyone feels like that sometimes. It hurts, but it doesn’t kill you.” Anne wiped a finger along her glistening lower eyelashes. Once again, he felt nothing from her. “Doesn’t mean you should go around stirring it up in people.”

He sighed and put a hand to the side of his face. “How bad is it, Anne? Us? How much damage have I done to us?”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and he instantly regretted the question.

“I can put up with a lot,” Anne said. “Mistakes you made in the past. Promises you can’t make for the future. But this… I can’t be with someone who does things like this.”

“I’ll stop, I promise. I can change."

“Good.” She shrugged. “I hope you’ll choose to.”

“Anne, please…” What he wouldn’t give to touch her right now, to have her put her arms around him; she must have sensed it, because she stepped back, looking away. “Please help me. Tell me how to make this right.”

“You could start by apologizing.”

“Yes, of course.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so sorry, Anne—”

“Not to _me!”_ She gave him a disgusted look. “To Neville. And for Merlin’s sake, do it with someone else in the room to support him. The kid’s terrified of you.”

“Right. I will.” Severus nodded, his chest tightening as she stepped towards the door. He couldn’t let her leave, but what other pleas or promises could make her stay?

“Clean up your act, Severus.” Anne’s arms folded back across her chest. “And stay away from me for a while.” 

With a slight parting nod of her head, she walked out and left Severus standing in the emptiest room he’d ever been in.

* * *

Albus started with the obvious places: the Potions classroom, the office, the apartment. From there, he checked the Slytherin common room, the rest of the dungeons, the Quidditch pitch and the restricted section of the library.

Finally, as he summited the steps of the Astronomy Tower, he spotted a black cloak silhouetted against the grey afternoon sky. Severus sat with his back against a stone pillar, his legs sprawled against the railing that displayed the most beautiful view in the castle, staring down at his own hands.

“I’ve waited three days for you to come and seek me out for a talk,” Albus called, making his way across the planked deck to him, “but I see pride is still getting the better of you.”

Severus moved only fractionally: a slight head turn, a barely raised eyebrow. He looked terrible. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and stubble fuzzing on his cheeks. His hair hung down over his face like beached seaweed over a rock, even limper than usual. “What do you want?”

“Good, thank you for asking. And how are _you_ holding up?” Steadying himself against the opposite end of the railing, Albus lowered his old bones down to an uncomfortable seat on the hard wooden floor.

Severus resumed staring at his hands, saying nothing.

“If you prefer,” Albus said, “we could talk about your dealings with Neville Longbottom. Can’t say I’m impressed to learn of your mistreatment of the boy all these years.”

“Save your breath.” Severus closed his eyes. “It won’t happen again. Unless you’re planning to fire me, you have nothing to add to my remorse.”

“I suspected as much. Well, here’s something constructive for you to occupy yourself with—I have it on good authority that Harry Potter did not enter his own name in the Goblet.”

“Whose authority? Potter’s?”

“I won’t reveal my source, but I promise it’s someone you’d consider trustworthy.”

Severus scoffed, turning his head away.

Albus tapped the man’s foot with his own. “What happened with Anne?”

“It’s over. She doesn’t love me anymore.” He gave a strange, strangled laugh, the kind of laugh only the truly cynical and sleep-deprived can manage. “At least I didn’t kill this one, hmm? At least I didn’t sell her out to a maniac who wanted to murder her whole family. Wouldn’t you call that progress?”

The laugh faded and a pained look came to his face. “Am I a bad person, Albus?”

Albus sighed, resting his chin on his hands. “What do you think?”

“I think I’ve done a lot of bad things. I think I still do bad things sometimes, out of habit or revenge or… when something happens that makes me feel so small, and I just can’t stand it. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me. Something broken.”

“I think you’re a flawed person trying his best. Just like the rest of us.”

“No,” Severus said, shaking his head. “No, there are people who aren’t like this. Good people. Anne’s a good person. She would never do the things I’ve done. Even what I said to Longbottom, I can’t imagine those words ever coming out of her mouth.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, watching the students wander like ants across the courtyard below.

“It’s interesting about Neville” Albus said, stroking the length of his grey beard, “that such a mild boy should raise such wrath in you.”

He paused to give Severus space to volunteer his thoughts.

After half a minute of silence, he pressed on: "You know, he was born just hours before Harry, right at the end of July. How different things might have been for you, if it were he instead of—”

“Oh, don’t say it,” Severus groaned, putting his head against his knees. “Even I’m not so petty as to harass the boy for that.”

“I see. Just one of those strange coincidences, then.”

Looking up, Severus gave what could have been glare if he’d put more energy into it. “He gets on my nerves, that’s all. He’s weak. It’s painful to watch him moping about, letting himself get teased and tormented.”

Albus twiddled his fingers, searching for the gentlest path to tread across the thorns ahead. “I seem to remember you getting tormented a fair bit,” he said very quietly, “back when you yourself were a timid—”

“But I didn’t just _take it,”_ Severus snapped, sitting up. “I had enough dignity to fight back. I wasn’t strong either, but I was smart enough to invent whatever spells I needed to avenge myself. No one cared about me either, but I _earned_ the respect of my peers.”

“Yes, a bunch of future Death Eaters you impressed with your hexes.”

Severus scowled and turned away, drawing his legs up closer into his chest. That was Albus’s cue to quit, he knew from years of trial and error; further pushing would only ignite the man’s temper or send him storming off.

Steadying himself with a hand on the railing, Albus pulled himself back up to a stand and shook the wrinkles out of his robe. This show of his imminent departure, he calculated, would stretch Severus’s patience enough to allow for one last prod.

“Everything I know of Neville Longbottom,” Albus said, turning toward the stairs, “suggests he is a sweet-natured boy with a gentle heart. A good person. What tremendous strength it must take him, to remain so gentle in the face of such mistreatment.”

Severus held his face stone-solid in its misery, staring sightlessly out into the sky; only an empath like Anne could have known whether this final arrow had hit a mark.


	25. A Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape looked back up, freezing Neville in place with his sphinx’s stare.
> 
> And then, without a word, he continued on down the aisle.
> 
> Putting a hand to his knee to steady himself, Neville gasped out the most discrete exhale he could manage. He couldn’t take much more of this. It had been a week since the disaster in the Great Hall foyer, and Snape hadn’t said a word to him. Not one word. Not a taunt. Not a threat.
> 
> He knew better than to relax: Snape was biding his time, like a hawk silently circling over a field mouse. There was no way he’d let the matter go. He was just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Neville glanced up from his textbook and his heart stopped cold: Snape was standing directly in front of his desk, staring down at him. 

The professor’s brow wrinkled slightly as if he were weighing his options, his cold eyes peering deep into Neville’s soul, looking for some place soft to strike. Oh griffins, had Professor Swanson said something to him? Neville had begged her not to. He’d kept his mouth shut. He hadn’t told her anything. He’d never meant to rouse Snape’s rage by stirring up trouble, it was just the usual Longbottom bad luck.

Blinking slowly, Snape’s gaze drifted to the bright blue contents in the cauldron between them. The potion should have been yellow. It _would_ have been yellow, if only Neville’s hands hadn’t shaken so much when he added the mugwort. If only he hadn’t lost count when he measured out the witchwood.

Snape looked back up at him, freezing him in place with his sphinx’s stare.

And then, without a word, he continued on down the aisle.

Putting a hand to his knee to steady himself, Neville gasped out the most discrete exhale he could manage. He couldn’t take much more of this. It had been a week since the disaster in the Great Hall foyer, and Snape hadn’t said a word to him. Not one word. Not a taunt. Not a threat.

He knew better than to relax: Snape was biding his time, like a hawk silently circling over a field mouse. There was no way he’d let the matter go. He was just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

A tap on Neville’s shoulder startled him off his chair.

“Psst,” Hermione said from the desk beside him.

He clamoured back up, his hand clasped over his pounding heart.

“You forgot the wolfsbane,” she whispered from the corner of her mouth, facing forward in her seat. “Two teaspoons of wolfsbane. You didn’t add it.”

“Oh. Thanks Herm—”

“Shhh!”

He followed her gaze up to the front, where Snape was staring at them. The fiend glanced back and forth between them—Neville’s stomach clenched—then turned to the chalkboard.

Neville took a deep breath and willed himself not to throw up in his cauldron. When would it end? How bad would it be? Whatever ghastly revenge Snape had in store for him, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the slow torture of waiting for it.

* * *

Anne pressed her knee against the door to her classroom, balancing the overflowing cardboard box on it while she fumbled for her keys. Her shoulders were numb from the straps of the heavy bags cutting into them. _Why_ had she decided to move all the excess art materials down from her apartment in a single go? She’d been so out of sorts lately; she hadn’t even thought to use a feather-light charm.

Whispering the unlocking incantation, she slid her key into the knob. As she twisted her wrist to turn it, the box slid off the other side of her knee. She groped for it as it fell, hissing a truly uncharitable remark about Merlin’s lesser-known wand—

And felt someone rush beside her.

“I’ve got it,” Severus said, catching the box.

Her body tensed involuntarily, the bags nearly slipping off her shoulders. Griffins, what was he doing way over at this end of the castle? Was he staking out her classroom now, waiting to run into her? He had his mind closed to her, which was beyond suspicious.

“Thanks,” Anne muttered, pushing open her door. She reached for the box. “I’ll take it from here.”

“I can carry it in for you.” His eyes looked worn and slightly unfocused, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. That made two of them.

“Would you please just give it to me?”

“Godric, Anne, I know you don’t want to see me—" He jerked the box away, wincing like she’d stabbed him. "—but you’d really rather collapse in the hallway than let me walk ten bloody paces with you?”

Huffing, Anne glanced up and down the corridor. “Fine.” She stomped into the room ahead of him.

Severus lingered in the doorway a moment, his eyes trailing down the hallway as if in a sleep-walking imitation of her. “Are you… embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Not embarrassed.” She lifted up on her toes, grunting, to transfer her bags onto her desk. “A bit guilty, maybe. I just don’t want to look... permissive of you.”

He nodded sadly, his mouth pressing closed in a tight line.

Anne reached in to start unpacking her bags, angry at herself for feeling sorry for him. The truth was, more than anything, she just felt stupid. How many people had cautioned her about Severus, about his callousness? And yet she’d gone and flung herself open to him anyway, seduced by his brilliance and trusting in the goodness she’d felt in him. More and more as she thought back over their relationship, she had her doubts. How much of that goodness had been her own wishful thinking, or the effect of his devious ability to focus on certain emotions while suppressing others?

Worst of all, she doubted herself. What use was her empathic ability if it couldn’t even warn her that the man she thought she knew—the man she’d shared everything with, body and mind—would do something so devastating and break her heart?

“For what it’s worth,” Severus said, resting the cardboard box down on her desk, “I really am trying to fix things.”

“Oh? And how did Neville take your apology?”

He glanced away quickly, swallowing. “I haven’t given it yet. I… it’s hard to find the right words. I’m going to.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what to believe from you anymore. Especially with your mind closed off this like. It’s like you’re trying to hide something.”

“What? No, I was only…” He stammered for a moment, standing there like a little boy lost in the woods and making it so maddeningly difficult not to pity him. “I didn’t think you’d want me to. I thought it would be manipulative.”

Hanging his head, he opened and his pain came creeping up into her bones like a damp cold, making everything ache. He was just as heart-broken as she was, just as sad and confused, but there was a kind of sickly fever to his wound. There was an infectious despair breeding in him, its only antidote too strange and terrifying to swallow. He was like a bear bleeding out in a trap, wondering whether to chew off his own leg or just roll over and die.

“I’m a wreck, Anne,” Severus said, his heart panging at her name. He stepped forward towards her, his arm raising slightly in its desire to reach for her. “I was just trying to protect you from it.”

His words were honest—he’d guarded his misery from her as a kindness. There was love there, and goodness. It was real.

It didn’t make it hurt any less.

Blinking hard, Anne turned away from him. “Please go,” she whispered.

* * *

Severus slid open the drawer of his nightstand. The topmost item—the only item of any true significance, until recently—was his one torn photograph of Lily. 

He picked it up. She was smiling in the photograph; though she was much older here, it was the same smile she used to grace him with when they were children. How long had it been since he’d seen Lily’s smile directed at him in person? When, precisely, was his final smile from her? It seemed a crucial moment in hindsight, but he’d taken it for granted at the time and never marked it.

Gently, as if it were made of fine glass, he set the photo down on top of his nightstand and reached back into the drawer for his only other prized possession: a stoppered jar the size of a salt shaker that held seven strands of long brown hair.

Anne had left a maroon cardigan at his apartment, but she could ask for it back any day now (and she’d sense if he lied and said he couldn’t find it), and eventually he’d have to give in and wash her fading scent from his sheets. These seven strands he’d collected from his pillows were the only tangible tokens of her he had left.

And Merlin help him, here he was about to destroy them.

Carrying the jar with him across the bedroom, Severus bent back to his cauldron, heightening the flame until the potion within was just below a simmer, sputtering up tiny bubbles. It was a delicate state to keep the brew in; he didn’t have much time to decide.

He unstoppered the jar and shook the strands out onto his palm, his heart clenching. It was just hair, but it was _her_ hair. The same hair that he’d brushed lovingly from her face, that had fallen across her eyes when she smiled at him and clumped with snow on the roof of the Great Hall and twisted in his fingers when he kissed her. It was a part of her. It might be the last part of her he ever got to touch.

But this was the only way he could think of to fix things.

With a determined inhale, he turned his hand and the hair fell into the cauldron. Immediately, the potion within turned the colour of merlot and began to sizzle like oil.

Holding his wand pressed to his chest, Severus stared down into the liquid and waited. The magic was coming together. He only hoped the hairs would be enough of Anne to give him what he needed.

* * *

Hermione’s own smile beamed back up at her, reflected off the crystal clear surface of her potion. It was a perfectly brewed Calming Draught, so pure and potent it could be spooned out and sped right up to the Hospital Wing for immediate use. Even Snape wouldn’t be able to deny its excellence—or deny her the excellent grade she deserved for it.

Grinning to herself, she ladled out the last of the liquid into her phials just as Snape stood to dismiss the class.

“Longbottom, Granger,” he called, his eyes flicking to their corner of the room. “A word.”

Beside her, Neville gulped. She briefly considered offering him a swig of her Calming Draught, but Snape was sitting right there at his desk, watching them. Instead, she put a hand to his arm and whispered: “It’s okay. I’m right here with you.”

As the other students filed out—Ron and Harry glanced back at her, their eyebrows arched in worry—Hermione and Neville shuffled up to Snape’s desk.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced her spine straight, her chin high. Obviously, Snape had finally figured out she was the one who confided the truth about him to Swanson, and he’d decided to punish her for it along with Neville. Well, he could do his worst. She didn’t regret a thing. He could boil her alive, but she’d never give him the satisfaction of seeing her sweat.

Snape folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “I’ve given a lot of thought to our recent ordeal in the foyer, Longbottom…”

Neville’s hand trembled like a leaf. Hermione watched it, fighting the urge to reach out and hold it.

“I believe I owe you a long-overdue apology.”

Her head whipped up. Was this a trap? She scanned Snape’s face for clues. His black eyes were as impassive as ever, though the grooves beneath them ran slightly deeper. His jaw was clenched—from awkwardness or animosity? The cloak over his shoulders, which she’d mistaken for a faded black from across the room, was actually charcoal. Did that mean something?

“The things I said to you in the foyer, even before the foyer… They were unkind. More than unkind. I shouldn’t have said them.” Snape cleared his throat, looking down at his desk. “I just wanted you to know I regret my past behaviour and that you don’t have to be… nervous of me. I won’t be troubling you. Anymore.”

Neville blinked at him, his mouth hanging open.

Snape fiddled with the clasp of his cloak. “Yes. Well. Anyway. I asked you to remain here through this, Granger, since…” He turned his head to her, then stopped, his eyes running across her face. “Actually… I suppose you deserve an apology as well. For what I said about your…” He touched his hand to his mouth, his words faltering.

Hermione glanced away, mortified.

“It was a cruel thing to say. I only said it to be cruel. It had nothing to do with your…” His eyes clenched shut. “Your teeth are fine. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she heard herself mutter.

“At least you have your delinquent friends to stand up for you. But Longbottom…” Snape sniffed, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t let people walk all over you. Show some spine. I got pushed around plenty too when I was your age, but I made sure I dealt it right back in their smug faces with—” He stopped himself, exhaling deeply as if to expel the excess antagonism his body couldn’t help producing.

“But I know that’s not your way,” he continued quietly. “And perhaps you’ve got it right. Perhaps fighting heckles with hexes isn’t a terribly noble way to get on.”

Hermione and Neville exchanged a bewildered glance. 

“I have something else I think will help you,” Snape said, sliding open the side drawer of his desk. He pulled out a burgundy gem the size of an almond and held it up to them between his thumb and forefinger. “I call it an Empathy Stone. Keep it on your person and if someone says or does something to hurt you, it’ll give them a taste of their own medicine.” Seeing Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up, he added: “It won’t _harm_ them, it just reflects your emotions at them.”

“It makes them feel what he’s feeling?” Hermione asked.

“Only for a few seconds, but I think it will help.” Snape sighed down at his hands. “No one enjoys feeling frightened or humiliated. It should ward off any further abuse.”

Neville gaped at the stone. “T-thank you. Professor.”

“It’s limited,” Snape said, considering his gem with a glum sniff. “It won’t be terribly effective against Occlumens, not that we have many at Hogwarts. And I suspect it will lose most of its potency over a couple of weeks.” He reached to hand Neville the stone. “I had only a small stock of its central ingredient to work with—”

The instant the stone passed to Neville’s hand, Snape jerked back, wincing.

“Nine hells, boy, I’m not going to _bite_ you!” It took a moment for the professor’s face to smooth back to its stony cast and his hands to unfist from his chest. “Sorry. Well, the stone works, in any case.”

Neville stared at him, wide-eyed. “D-did I just—Did you—I’m sorry—"

“Don’t go around _apologizing_ for it.” Snape’s eyes got through half a roll before he caught himself, exhaling. “And it’s fine. I can understand why you feel that way. I just hope in time I can… repair some of the damage.”

Cradling the stone in his palms, Neville nodded, his lips parted in a stunned softness. 

“That’s all I wanted to say,” Snape murmured, reaching for one of the papers stacked at the side of his desk. “You can both go now.”

Guiding him by the elbow, Hermione led a stupified Neville towards the door. He was like a zombie, tottering forward with his head bent down, eyes glued to the tiny treasure he held close to his chest in wonder. Even if it were only a pretty rock, it would still be precious to Neville, who rarely got gifts of any sort. Certainly not one-of-a-kind gifts made specially for him.

As they stepped out into the hallway, Hermione glanced back. Snape had one elbow propped on the desk, his face half buried in his hand. He looked exhausted, like a man who had just swum for his life against the currents of a rushing river. Or maybe a man marooned on a rock in the middle of the river, gazing across at the shore.


	26. The Empathy Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well I _did_ suggest he apologize to Neville,” Swanson admitted. She chewed her lip, looking down at her feet. “How did it go?”
> 
> “It was pretty weird," Hermione told her. "Awkward, I mean. But I think he actually might have meant it. He hasn’t picked on Neville once since that last time.”
> 
> Swanson breathed a sigh of relief, nodding.
> 
> “And he gave him this stone I’d never heard of before… I’m not certain it even does what Snape says it does, but I catch Neville staring at it all the time in the Common Room.”
> 
> “A stone?” Swanson’s head whirled, her brow wrinkling. “What kind of stone?”

The slimy black bulb pulsed, squirming up from its bowl of ragged-edged leaves like a larva hatching out of its eggshell. Pansy Parkinson grimaced away from it, her nose wrinkling at the swelling stink in the greenhouse.

“Be careful when you’re squeezing,” Sprout called to the class, pacing up the back of the opposite aisle. “The pus is very valuable, so mind you don’t spill it.”

Pansy scowled down at the plant in front of her. She was absolutely going to kill her friend Samantha. Getting the flu was no excuse to ditch Pansy alone in Herbology class, especially when they had to milk the pus out of bloody bubotubers again! And to add insult to injury, she’d come late and gotten stuck sitting at the end of the worktable, beside blubbering baby Neville Longbottom. This day could not possibly get any worse.

She straightened her spine and took a deep breath. Fine. Whatever. If Samantha would rather cry off sick in the Slytherin dorm than show up and squeeze Pansy’s bubotuber for her like she had last time—like she was _supposed to—_ Pansy would just deal with it herself. How hard could it be if even Longbottom wasn’t screwing it up?

Taking aim at one of the bubotuber’s puffy, glistening swellings, Pansy reached forward with clawed hands.

“Wait!” Longbottom’s arm shot out to block her.

Pansy was so shocked, for a moment she could only gape. Had he actually just dared _touch_ her?

“You have to wear gloves.” He held up his pudgy, dragonskin-clad fingers to her. “Otherwise you’ll hurt yourself. Here, I have an extra pair of—”

“I don’t need your help, you grody little troll,” she snapped. “I get it, you’re an expert in pus—all that time you spend popping zits off your disgusting pie face—but that doesn’t mean you... can…”

As she watched Longbottom’s reaction, her words caught in her throat. It was like she had never really looked at him before—at the way he flinched back when she insulted him, at the hurt in his eyes. Bloody Baron, it was almost like she could _feel_ the embarrassment stinging through him.

Pansy swallowed hard and glanced away. What in the nine hells. Was she getting her period or something?

“Just mind your own business,” she muttered.

“Sure. Sorry.” Longbottom sat there hunched for a moment, moping down at his plant. Then, without looking up, he placed his extra pair of dragonskin gloves down on the table between them. “I’ll just leave these here, in case you want them.” 

He went back to squeezing his swellings and Pansy sat there staring at her bubotuber and feeling like a moron. He was right—she needed gloves.

After a good long minute of stubbornness, she reached over and took the dragonskin gloves. She tugged them over her hands and yanked the plant closer to her, gritting her teeth as she reached down to...

Pansy froze. Was there a specific way you needed to squeeze the stinking little nubs? Could the pus spray out at you if you did it wrong? Every other student at the table seemed to have it down, but she’d die of shame if she had to ask one of them for help. Then again, she’d also die of shame if she had to hand over an empty vial to Sprout at the end of class.

An open textbook slid across the table towards her. _Extracting Bubotuber Pus_ read the title at the top. Longbottom shifted the book with his elbow, as though he was just shuffling it out of the way, but Pansy had the distinct impression he was trying to help her again. She would have chewed him out for it—she didn’t need coddling from a crybaby—but she was getting another one of those strange sensations. It was a weird feeling of goodwill, this time, like he wanted to tell her he understood what it was like to feel stupid. Like he wanted to tell her it was okay.

Craning her neck as inconspicuously as possible, Pansy peeked over at the contents of the page.

“What’s a sucker?” she blurted out before she realized what she was doing. Instantly, a fire flared up in her face. Had she actually just asked Neville Longbottom for help? She was never going to live this down. Why would he ever let her live this down?

“It’s the little puckery parts,” Neville said, his voice mercifully quiet—no one else noticed him talking to her. “Look, you just take your two pointer fingers, and you push in like this.” Pressing his fingers gently to one of the little nubs on his plant, he squeezed out a slow dribble of pus. “If you put a funnel in your vial and you keep it right under your fingers, you don’t have to worry about spilling any.”

“Got it.” She fiddled with the clip at the side of her hair. “Uh, thanks.”

“No problem.” Looking up from the bubotuber, Neville gave her a small smile. It made his face look older and less babyish—it wasn’t actually such a terrible face. It might even end up squarish and manly in a few more years. And his skin wasn’t really that bad, to be honest. He had pimples, sure, but you hardly noticed them against those big hazel-green eyes—

Pansy spun back to her plant, feeling her face heat again. Bloody Baron, what was _wrong_ with her today? She had to be majorly PSMing or coming down with Samantha’s flu or something. Anyone who gave Neville Longbottom more than a passing sneer ought to have her head examined.

* * *

“Don’t throw it to _me!”_ Hermione shrieked at Harry as the slobbering hundred-kilogram beast barrelled towards her. Laughing, she hurled the hambone over to Ron and ducked behind Hagrid for shelter.

Her aim was off and Ron almost had to dive to catch the bone before it smashed the flowerpot at the side of Hagrid’s house. He’d barely straightened back up to a stand when the boarhound leapt, knocking him off his feet. The two of them landed with a thud on the withering brown grass.

“Fang, yeh clumsy oaf!” Hagrid hollered, grabbing his dog by the scruff of the neck and wrestling him off Ron.

As Ron sat up, wiping the drool off his face with his sleeve, Hermione and Harry laughed so hard they had to lean against one another. Fang tugged out of his owner’s grip to prance in a circle between the four of them, showing off his new prized bone.

“Ho there!” Hagrid shouted off into the distance, waving.

As she made her way around the curve of the lake, Swanson turned and lifted her mittened hand to them. Her cable knit toque and rosy cheeks suggested she was returning from a long walk.

“See you at dinner,” Hermione called back to her friends as she took off running. She hopped over two burnt sections of grass (damaged during the First Task) on her way down to the shoreline.

“Professor Swanson,” she panted out with a white puff of frosty December air. “I’ve been meaning to come and find you. I wanted to say thank you.”

Swanson turned to her with a small smile. “For what?”

“For whatever you said to Snape. I certainly wasn’t expecting him to _apologize_ to me. I’d have been happy if he just left Neville alone.”

“He apologized to _you?”_ Swanson’s eyebrows raised. “What had he done? What did he say?”

“Oh, I uh…” With a gasp of nervous laughter, Hermione’s shoulders tensed up into a shrug. “I thought maybe you’d asked him to say sorry. I told you he’d said something to me... It was nothing.” Snape’s comment about her teeth—when they were already, at that moment, as long as a gopher’s—and in front of Malfoy, Harry _and_ Ron—was just about the most embarrassing moment of her life. She never wanted to speak of it ever again, especially now that she felt she could truly put it behind her.

“I can’t even really remember what it was about anymore,” she lied, waving her hand. “But anyway, he apologized to me and Neville.”

“Well I _did_ suggest he apologize to Neville,” Swanson admitted. She chewed her lip, looking down at her feet. “How did it go?”

“It was pretty weird. Awkward, I mean. But I think he actually might have meant it. He hasn’t picked on Neville once since that last time.”

Swanson breathed a sigh of relief, nodding.

“And he gave him this stone I’d never heard of before… I’m not certain it even does what Snape says it does, but I catch Neville staring at it all the time in the Common Room.”

“A stone?” Swanson’s head whirled, her brow wrinkling. “What kind of stone?”

* * *

Anne raised her hand to the door, then paused, straining to catch the faint murmur of feeling behind it. Flicking her eyes up and down the dark dungeon corridor, she leaned forward and pressed the side of her face to the heavy wood. 

Severus was there, inside his apartment. She could sense his mind picking its way gracefully along the narrow beams of some sophisticated task, airing the same aria of concentration it had months ago when he’d solved the puzzles she’d brought him. She closed her eyes, focusing deeper on it. Griffins, she missed this feeling. It was like watching a dance, or watching fingers fly across a fretboard, teasing a song out of simple strings. It was so beautiful, his mind.

But that’s not why she was here, she reminded herself. Clenching her jaw, Anne straightened up and knocked in two crisp raps.

When the door opened, the first thing she saw was green. Blinding emerald green. That, for some reason, was the colour of the cloak draping Severus’s shoulders.

He blinked at her, stammering. “Anne… I…” His emotions were jumbled and swirling, like a snowglobe shaken for all its worth. 

“New cloak?” she blurted.

“Sorry?” He glanced down at himself then, as if just noticing he was wearing the thing. A streak of embarrassment raced through him as, clearing his throat, he reached to undo the silver ribbon at his neck. “House colours. Just trying it out. I wasn’t expecting... company.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“No. Well, yes. That is to say—” Severus clenched his eyes shut briefly and she could feel him chastising himself. He held the door open to her and said in a tight tone: “I’m in the middle of something, but please come in.”

He closed the door after she’d entered, shuffling an old crate out of the way with his foot, and led the way toward a cauldron simmering on a desk in the corner of the room. As he passed by his armchair, he flung the green cloak off onto it.

“It’s a nice cloak,” Anne said as he picked up a torn spray of dried orange herbs—Devil Grass?—and continued shredding it into the bubbling liquid. “It just doesn’t seem very _you.”_

“Not villainous enough?” he muttered.

“That’s not what I meant. You seem uncomfortable in it, that’s all.”

Severus shrugged, sulking, and reached for a flask of thick crimson liquid.

“I came by to ask you about…” Anne’s mouth lost track of her words as she watched him uncork the flask, holding it tilted so the thin plume that billowed from the opening was safely away from him. “Are you brewing Wolfsbane Potion?”

He sniffed out an astonished laugh. “Now how on earth would you know that?”

“You gave us a recommended reading on hydra blood,” she said, motioning to the liquid in his hands. “Pair that with the Devil Grass, and the Wolfsbane, of course...” She flicked her chin to the jar of dried purple flowers at the edge of the desk.

“Good eye. I wish you’d come back to class. You were by far my best student.” He gave her a sad smile, ringing out such a toll of tender longing that it resonated through her body.

Anne fought the urge to echo it back, pulling her eyes from his. “I want to come back. I just thought it would be too hard, at first.”

He nodded, shoulders slumping, and raised the flask to her. “Add this to your notes—emulsification is the most delicate step in brewing Wolfsbane Potion. Would you mind giving me a few minutes, to give it my full attention?”

“Of course.” She would have liked to watch the process, but his mind was wide open and it told her she was making him nervous standing there. Turning, she followed the titled spines of his books along the wall.

There were fewer books on the dark oak shelves than she remembered, and the ones that were there looked well cared for, their leather bindings mended and polished. He’d been cleaning. No, more than cleaning—she glanced about the room—he’d moved things around, changed things. A burlap cloth had been laid over the wooden chest by armchair, disguising it as a regular table, and the black chain chandelier overhead had lightened to gunmetal grey. The ancient candles and their drippings had been scraped off the mantle over the health and replaced with fresh tapers, and where was the dear little gargoyle (Rocky, Anne had secretly named him) who used to sit beside them?

Normally, there were plenty of open books and academic journals left scattered around the room for her to peruse, but today everything was tidy. At last, she spotted a comforting clutter of papers on the small side table by the armchair and wandered over.

On the top of the pile was half of a torn photograph: a smiling woman with red hair and green eyes. Anne sat in the chair and started to reach for the photo, but a familiar scrawl on the paper beside it drew her eye—her own loopy handwriting.

Frowning, she picked up the paper and read:

> _Lupin,_
> 
> _Please find enclosed a three-month supply of Wolfsbane Potion. You can expect additional doses on an ongoing basis, indefinitely._
> 
> _Hope you’re well._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  Your fellow monster _

“Severus?” Anne held the note up, hearing his footsteps approach.

“Oh Godric.” He pulled the paper out of her hand. “I didn’t mean to leave that out. I wasn’t expecting company.” A painful humility shot through him, as though he were being praised for a good deed he’d done by accident.

“Who’s Lupin?” she asked.

“An old enemy. One who outgrew our foolish feud a long time ago.” He took the chair across from her, folding the note into the pocket of his shirt. “I hope you don’t mind me enchanting the message into your handwriting. I had to use someone he wouldn’t recognize.”

“Why? What’s wrong with your writing? Or your name, for that matter?”

Severus shrugged, but a swell of stubborn resentment gave her his answer: he was ready to right a particular wrong he’d done to this enemy, but not yet prepared to cast off his armour and stride out alone across the steaming battlefield to make true peace. 

“You didn’t come here to question me about that,” he said.

“No.” Anne sighed. “I came to ask you about the Empathy Stone.”

“I’d figured that’s probably what brought you.” He stared down at his hands, gushing out disappointment like a ruptured hull.

* * *

“Does it actually work?” Anne asked, sitting there in his chair like a long-lost diamond finally restored to the hollow golden claw reaching up from a ring band. “I asked Neville to show it to me, but of course I couldn’t feel anything from it. Nothing more than what I normally feel from him, I mean.”

“The stone works,” Severus told her, his fingers fidgeting in his lap as he remembered the jolt of fright it had shocked into him as he’d passed the gift to the boy. “How _well_ it actually accomplishes its aim, and for how long, I can’t say. I’ve never made anything like it before. No one has, as far as I’m aware.”

She looked at him, and for a brief second that sweet smile of admiration lit up her face. It was the way she used to look at him when he solved her guessing games, or when she stayed after class to flirt with him, her hands stained from her note-taking.

It passed quickly. “How did you make it?” she asked, her brow creasing and her voice suddenly strained. Her arms tightened against her sides, as if a draft had blown by her. “You didn’t come into… You didn’t _take_ anything from me to make it, did you?”

The question hit him in the stomach like a sledgehammer. Is that what she thought of him now? He’d done some terrible things to other people, true, but he’d sooner set himself on fire than violate her in any way. Didn’t she know that?

“I would never take anything from you, Anne,” he said quietly. “I used a few strands of your hair and one of Neville’s. I took his from his desk, yours from my bed.” He’d expected to feel ashamed telling her how he’d collected her hair, knowing she’d sense how important those tiny fragments of her had been to him, what a pathetic sacrifice he’d made when he threw them in his cauldron. His shame didn’t matter now, though. Better to shame himself than have her doubt his love.

Anne smiled up at the ceiling, blinking her teary eyes. “Well it’s a beautiful idea, giving him the stone as a gift. Neville really cherishes it, and not just for its magic.”

They sat there in silence across from each other for a long moment, him yearning desperately to reach for her hand and her looking everywhere but at him and pretending she couldn’t feel it. He found himself wishing the castle would collapse and crush him.

Finally, mercifully, Anne struck up another awkward conversation. “I couldn’t help but notice… On the table…” She leaned over and plucked the torn photograph from the side table. “Is this Lily?”

Nine hells in concentric circles, she was killing him. How many sore spots could she poke in one visit? 

“That’s her,” Severus muttered, sitting as far back in his chair as he could. He dreaded spending another agonizing minute with her, yet the thought of her leaving terrified him. He was torn in half, just like that bloody photograph. “Didn’t mean to leave it out. I wasn’t expecting—”

“Company. I know.”

He gritted his teeth, beginning to question who was truly the more sadistic of the two of them, when a tiny flicker of warmth blossomed in the cave of his chest. _Her_ warmth.

He arched forward, gaping at her.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Sev,” she said, tilting her head with a small smile. “I’m just trying to figure out… where you’re at. I’m trying to make sense of things.”

It was barely a glimmer of her, the weakest projection she’d ever opened to him, but it cast enough of a glow to hint at the edges of her many shadowed feelings towards him—and those edges were not as sharp as he’d feared. He’d happily singe his fingers black, if given the chance to cup his hands around that little light and breathe it bright enough to see her.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Lily,” he said, reaching for the photo. “About when we were younger. When we stopped being friends. Makes me wonder if I’m not just repeating my same old mistakes decades later.”

“I thought you stopped being friends because you called her…”

“We did. But that was really just the final straw. I see that now.” He looked down at poor Lily, trapped in time with no choice about who she smiled at anymore. “She hated my other friends, all their meanness and their blood purity nonsense. I knew that. She was clear about that. I suppose I just felt stronger when I was with them. Powerful. I was like a rabbit that clawed its way up to the top of the food chain, became a wolf.” He exhaled a humourless laugh. “Always better to be a wolf than a rabbit, right?”

Anne straightened her mouth in a sympathetic smile. 

“Lily didn’t think so either,” he said. “Perhaps she could have come to love a rabbit, but not some skulking thing that donned the jaws of a wolf to run as one of their pack, tearing other rabbits apart. All these years, I blamed her rejection on our differing paths, but that came much later. The truth was, she saw straight through me from the start. She saw what a coward I really was.”

“Are you saying you think you’re still a coward now?” Anne asked, eyebrows raising. “After everything that’s happened?” She opened herself to him just a shred more, just enough to show the faint contours of the admiration she held for him. It was misshapen, but still intact.

“I’m saying I’m still part rabbit, and I hate it. The second I feel like prey, I bite the head off the nearest bystander.” He sighed and shook his head. “Usually an easy mark, like Longbottom.”

He searched her face, waiting to feel if his words had any power to soften the wall she kept up against him. They weren’t brave or beautiful words, Severus knew, but it had been a long, painful process to dig them up from the core of himself.

After a moment, when she didn’t open further or say anything, he hung his head. “I’m really trying, Anne. You see that, don’t you? The apology… The apartment… I’m really trying to change. To fix myself.”

Her hand gripped his.

When his head snapped up in shock, she was laughing gently at him in that baffling way of hers that ought to hurt but never did. “You’re not a carburetor. You’re not broken.”

She squeezed his hand and he clung to hers like a rope.

“You’re healing, that’s all,” she said. “You’re healing the wrongs you’ve done to other people. And you’re finally tending to some of your own wounds, that you’ve let fester up until now. I wish I’d known about them before. I wish you’d trusted me with that.”

He sat there nodding, feeling naked and completely inadequate. He _had_ trusted her—more than he’d ever trusted anyone—but just how much of him had she expected to see? How much did she think she could bear to look at? He could scarcely let the woman into his home without scrambling to stash some terrifying token of his morbid pastimes. Godric, what horrors would she find if he let her wander all the way down into the depths of himself?

“Stop it,” Anne whispered. “And stop calling yourself a monster. You’ve got some problems, but you don’t need to change who you _are.”_ She reached back to grasp a handful of the green cloak hanging over the armchair. “You don’t need this, unless you want it, or _this.”_ She gestured to the room—so she _had_ noticed the changes. “Your dark clothes and your macabre apartment and the hideous things I’ve seen drying over your showerhead aren’t problems. Wanting to gag me with my pashmina during sex isn’t a problem.”

“It isn’t?” Severus asked, then clenched his jaw, cursing himself. “Not the gagging. I didn’t know you knew about—I just meant, you’re talking about...” He took a sharp inhale in, collecting his thoughts. She was talking about them having sex, which meant she was talking about them as a couple, which meant— 

“What are you saying?” he asked. “That you still want me? That there's still a chance for us?” He could barely hear his own words over the blood pounding through his ears.

With a small smile, Anne shrugged again.

And then, like sunlight breaking through the clouds, she opened and at last he could see all that was left of her love for him. It was like a garden battered by a late spring frost. Some of it was still encased in ice, some parts bent or crushed under the weight of it, but it was all still here: connection, admiration, tenderness, desire, even joy. It was thawing out, recovering its litheness. And here and there, fresh flowering things were sprouting up. Things he’d never seen in her before. Things that seemed stranger than the others, but stronger.

“It’s still going to take some time,” Anne said, sighing, “to build back to the level of trust we had—”

Severus slid off his chair to kneel on the floor, just as he had that first morning they spent at his apartment when everything was right between them, and wrapped his arms around her knees, resting his head in her lap like a child. It might have felt foolish, if it didn’t feel so right to both of them.

She didn’t say anything for a long while, just stroked her hands over his head and along his shoulders. It was enough—she was here with him and she still loved him and that was enough. He held onto her. He would have kept holding on to her while the lamplights dimmed, while the moon rose and set, while his expensive Wolfsbane Potion evaporated into tar and ruined his best cauldron.

But after a few minutes, Anne guided his hands up and off her. “I should go.”

“Stay,” he begged her, sitting back on his heels. “Stay the night.”

“I’m not ready for that yet.” Thawing ice glistened off the roses in her heart.

Severus nodded down at the floor.

She bent and kissed him once on the mouth before she stood, and he rose with her, walking her to the door to keep hold of her hand. The potion left unstirred in the corner was fuming up a slightly acrid smell—not ideal, but he could counter for it with a little tinkering.

As his door opened, she noticed the crate on the floor beside it and peeked inside. “What’s all this?”

“Just some old things I’m letting go of.”

“Your jarred specimens?” Reaching down, she tilted back one of the long tubes to peer at the many-legged grotesque suspended within. “Not that I’m sad to see them go, but are you sure you don’t want them for your office? Maybe they’d scare off intruders.” She grinned to show she was teasing him.

Severus shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Shuffling a bit deeper in the box, she heaved out the loathsome stone gargoyle that had long guarded his mantle (Diabolus, Severus had secretly named him). Anne smiled tenderly at the little monster. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

He turned his hand palm-up. “You’re welcome to him. It.”

“Thanks.” She stepped back into his open doorway. “Want to go for a walk around the lake tomorrow?”

“Yes. Of course.” She could have invited him to a sing-along and he’d have accepted.

She lingered there on the top step a moment. He sensed she’d let him kiss her again, so he leaned out and did, not caring who was in the hallway to see. Just one quick kiss. He could content himself with that.

“See you tomorrow, Sev.” Anne gave him that grin of hers, bright as a hundred-watt bulb.

Then she turned and walked away, holding the gargoyle cuddled to her chest as though he were a teddy bear.


	27. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus stepped forward to her, meeting her smile with his own, and in that one instant they felt just like they had back in November when everything was right.
> 
> But then, as his hand landed on her elbow on its path to embrace her, a shadow fell across her heart. Taking hold of the canvas, she stepped back, so gracefully it looked like a dance.
> 
> “I can’t believe you’ve never had a tree,” Anne said, still smiling at him. She marched the painting over to a flat-top wooden chest. “My mom would have ours up by Halloween if dad let her.”
> 
> “I suspect we had very different upbringings.” 
> 
> Swallowing a sigh, Severus sat in his armchair and rested his head against his hand. He and Anne were back together, ostensibly, but it wasn’t the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end of the story! I'm expecting 30 chapters in total, and I'm hoping to post the last of them each Sunday from here on out. If you've read this far, I hope you'll stick with me until the end (of Part 1, at least; if there's enough interest, I'd love to do Parts 2 and 3 down the line). :)
> 
> Also, LOL to having to write Christmas scenes in September! That's just where we happen to be in the book.

“It’s still worth investigating the students,” Albus said, shifting stray papers to the side of his desk to make room for his elbows. “I’ve seen our youth get up to some rather astonishing mischief over the years.” He leaned on the desk, sighing as his mind wandered back over secret chambers opened and flying Fords crashed into whomping willows.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall diamond-paned windows of his office. It shone off swirling specks that rose through the air as his visitor pulled forth one dusty book after another from the shelves to his left, examining them.

“If you really think so,” Anne said, shrugging as she hooked her finger over the spine of a blue hardcover and tilted it down from its high shelf to read the title. “It’s just hard combing through teen hearsay, even for an empath. The most ridiculous rumour can feel true when someone really believes it.” 

“Belief is powerful,” Albus agreed, “but not as powerful as the truth. It can’t hide forever.”

Anne reached for another book. “I asked Professor Moody—Alastor—his professional opinion as an Auror.” She breathed a little laugh and shook her head. “It’s so weird talking to him, sensing nothing. I go my whole life as an empath, feeling everything from everyone, and then I come to this school with not just one Occlumen who can block me out, but two.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. _Three Occlumens, actually,_ he thought to himself, but perhaps he’d reveal his own skill to her in due time. For now, he didn’t let it concern him—which, Albus had learned in his long lifetime, was an equally effective way to guard secrets from an empath.

“What did Alastor say?” he asked.

“He’s narrowed it down to two suspects.” She bit her lip, turning to face him. “What do you know about Igor Karkaroff?”

Albus sighed. “Enough to understand why Alastor suspects him.” As much as he would like to believe all acquitted Death Eaters had truly changed their ways, there were enough Lucius Malfoys traipsing freely around England to prove otherwise. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Anne said, “once I can think up an excuse. He doesn’t seem like the chatty, gossiping type.”

“Perhaps if he thinks you have information that could aid his contestant,” he suggested. “Who was the other suspect?”

She rolled her eyes, humming a short laugh. “Guess.”

“Of course,” he chuckled, pulling down his glasses to rub his eyes. Severus was _still_ sulking over the resident Auror’s invasion of his office. Between that and his broken heart, the man had plenty to sulk about.

“How have you been getting on, by the way?” Albus asked. “Since the break-up?”

Anne pulled a book off one of the lower shelves and opened it. “Actually, we got back together. Sort of. Almost two weeks ago—Severus didn’t say anything?”

He gave an indignant sniff. Severus had said nothing, as usual. “Have you told him about the work you’ve been doing for me?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’m afraid your investigation is suspended.” Albus sat back in his chair, reaching for the papers he’d been working on before her arrival. “New assignment—tell Severus.”

“Are you serious?” Anne gaped at him, the book in her hands snapping closed with a thud. “I’m a grown woman, Albus. I don’t need to ask my boyfriend’s permission.”

“I agree,” he told her, “but I’ll not lie to the man who puts his life at risk for me about something so important to him. He’s specifically asked me not to involve you in this. It was none of his business when you weren’t together, but now…” He shrugged, letting the conflicting feelings of his predicament flow out to her. How Anne chose to use her empathic ability was her own affair, true, and he wanted her help—but he _needed_ Severus. Any action that might cost him his inside man, like pitting the wellbeing of said man’s current love against a fourteen-year-old promise to his lost love, was simply too big a risk.

Albus folded his hands on his desk, calming his mind and choosing his next words very carefully. Perhaps there was a chance, if he played his cards right and set Anne the thorny task of convincing Severus, that he could have them both.

“I don’t presume to tell people what to do,” he said, taking off his glasses to polish them on his robe. “If you choose to disregard my wishes and continue asking around, that’s your prerogative. But understand that whatever information you bring me, I will pass on to Severus—and I will tell him who I learned it from. There’ll be no further assignments from me, no more of these meetings, without his blessing.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Anne. I know it’s unfair, but my hands are tied. I can’t afford to push Severus on the issue.”

She crossed her arms, shaking her head. After a minute, when she didn’t answer, Albus turned back to his papers, hoping his iron resolve would close the matter like a thrown deadbolt.

“Okay,” Anne huffed at last, stomping up to his desk. “I’ll talk to him. _And_ I’ll talk to Karkaroff.”

“In that order, I'll assume.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Excellent. Then good afternoon, Anne.”

She thrust the cover of the book she’d been flipping through out toward him. “Can I borrow this?” _Duelling the Dark Arts_ the cover read.

Albus didn’t bother hiding his dismay at her choice. “Of course,” he sighed, his ears ringing in anticipation of Severus’s thoughts on the matter.

* * *

Anne tucked her paintbrush behind her ear and reached to pass him the canvas, her hands speckled silver. “Well, what do you think?”

Leaning against the back of his armchair, Severus looked down at the tree she’d painted for him. He’d never been one for holiday decor, but as far as Christmas trees went, this one was rather handsome: a dark evergreen, frosted with snow and lit here and there by tiny hidden lights, as if a community of fireflies had taken up winter residence in its branches. Pine cones dotted its boughs and a silver ribbon laced from its unadorned top down to its trunk, which grew straight up out of the ground. No clashing colours, none of the garish glittery baubles he’d been dreading living with in his apartment for the next two weeks. This was simple, understated. It was touching that she knew his taste.

“It’s perfect,” he said, and felt her joy twinkling like a string of lights. He stepped forward to her, meeting her smile with his own, and in that one instant they felt just like they had back in November when everything was right.

But then, as his hand landed on her elbow on its path to embrace her, a shadow fell across her heart. Taking hold of the canvas, she stepped back, so gracefully it looked like a dance.

“I can’t believe you’ve never had a tree,” Anne said, still smiling at him. She marched the painting over to a flat-top wooden chest. “My mom would have ours up by Halloween if dad let her.”

“I suspect we had very different upbringings.” 

Swallowing a sigh, Severus sat in his armchair and rested his head against his hand. He and Anne were back together, ostensibly, but it wasn’t the same. She was distant, in more than her new habit of subtly pulling back so he rarely got to touch her. She was distant in some strange, internal way he couldn’t quite pinpoint; he wasn’t experienced enough in either relationships or emotions to know its name. In the past, his darling empath would have introduced him to it like an old acquaintance at a cocktail party, but now instead she wandered off to greet it alone and left him stranded in the crowd.

Anne positioned the canvas on the wooden chest, stepping back to study it from this angle and that. After painting in one last-minute detail, she waved her wand and pronounced: _“Vitam Artis.”_ When she lifted the canvas, the little tree stayed standing in place where it was, sprouted straight up out of the chest. She used another spell to enlarge it, then set to work fluffing branches with her fingers. It seemed a great deal of effort for something that would be gone by New Year’s.

When she stepped back to admire it, Severus called to her: “Come and see it from here. The armchair’s my primary viewpoint.” She crossed the room to stand in front of him, tilting her head at the tree and then nodding her approval.

He reached for her wrist and pulled her in to sit on his lap. She used to like that. The small spark in her suggested she still did.

Anne protested: “I’m covered in paint.”

“Then I’ll get paint on me,” he said, and guided her mouth to his.

He kissed her, and for the first time since their reuniting he felt her relax into it, her lips softening and welcoming him. He slid his hands around her waist and up her back, drawing her in closer, and she responded with deeper kisses and flickers of desire to match his own. Finally, _finally,_ she was letting him all the way back in. Finally she was close enough to be the only thing he could smell, open enough to tangle in his mind so he couldn’t tell whose want was whose. Finally he would get to touch her again, his bare skin against hers and his hands stroking her in ways that would make her moan his name back to him, the name only she called him.

But instead the shadow fell across her, and she pulled back. “It’s getting late.”

“Stay.” That one word had become the refrain to the song of their mending relationship. Severus moved his hands from her body, showing he wouldn’t push, but laced their fingers to try to keep her close. “We don’t have to do anything. Stay and sleep beside me. Or just stay and sit up a while longer. I saved some articles I thought you might enjoy.”

Anne smiled, but the darkening shadow said she’d already made up her mind.

He sighed and shook his head.“What’s happened to us? _Talk to me,_ Anne. Do we just need more time or is it something else? It feels like part of you is… Obscured. Blocked off.”

She shrugged, her eyes wandering off to the damned Christmas tree. If only she would _tell_ him what was going on.

He squeezed her hand. “I just wish we could go back to the way we were before.”

The statement hung in the air for a long moment like a ghost.

Then, very quietly, Anne said: “Maybe I don’t.”

His heart plummeted into his stomach. “Oh Godric, Anne, what are you saying?” She was leaving him again. The shadow inside her was her love for him being slowly strangled to death by the darkness she saw in him and she was leaving him to rot alone with it like he deserved—

“Stop it,” she said, huffing. “I just meant there are some things about how we were before… I never said much about them, but they bothered me.”

“Ah.” Severus blinked at her a second, his mind flushing out one set of troubled questions as fast as new ones poured in. He’d changed so much for her already—his tongue was practically shredded from all the snide remarks about Hagrid and Haberdash he’d bitten back lately. “Well, tell me. What sort of things?”

Anne took a deep inhale (not a good sign). “For one thing, I wish you’d let me help with the work you’re doing for Albus, protecting Harry. It’s a waste not to. I already know the situation and I can find out certain things much easier than you can.”

He nodded, fighting to suppress whatever cast iron sentiments might be clanging around in him to betray that he had no intention of ever even considering her involvement in that nightmare. Not even considering. Not ever. “We can talk about it. What else?”

“Sex,” she said, and his spirits raised. “The dominance stuff.” His spirits dropped. “I’ve suggested plenty of things, and I _know_ you liked some of them, so I don’t understand why you’ve always turned me down.” She raised her chin, waiting for his response.

Severus groaned. “That’s really not a part of myself I’m trying to foster at the moment...”

“Griffins, Severus, this isn’t about you.” She glanced down at her hands a second, and he sensed she was summoning her confidence. When she looked back up, there was a new strength to her eyes. “Did it never occur to you that maybe _I_ like that kind of stuff, all on my own? That I like being spanked and tied up and ordered around? That I’m _attracted_ to people I sense are sexually dominant and have been since long before we met?”

He stared at her, his mouth not working. His brain not working. Those thoughts had _not_ occurred to him, and now that they had, all at once, he didn’t quite know how to process them.

“I… All right,” he stammered, rubbing his hand along the outside of her thigh and hoping it made up for all the lost words he felt he should be saying right now. “All right. We can work on that. I can… work on that.” He swallowed hard. “Anything else?”

She tilted her head, thinking, and Severus eased a relieved exhale cautiously through his nose. Surely this signalled the nearing end of the minefield.

“I don’t want to sneak around anymore,” Anne said at last. “I know you hate gossip, but—”

“We can tell people,” he said, his shoulders relaxing. Compared to her other two requests, this was low-hanging fruit; he’d expected the snooping students to have caught onto them by now anyway. “Actually…” His eye wandered to the Christmas tree and inspiration struck. “Be my date for the Yule Ball. We can go together, as a couple. Let everyone find out all at once.”

A grin lit up across Anne’s face, chasing the shadows from her. “Will you hold my hand? In public?”

“I will.” A tiny discomfort licked through him as he pictured the snickering students.

“Will you dance with me?”

“I will.” The discomfort lapped a little higher. How hard could dancing be if teenagers could manage it?

“Okay.” She beamed at him, a dreamy cheerfulness lighting up her mind, and he knew any amount of unpleasantness on the actual night would be worth it. She nestled into his shoulder, resting her head against his.

“Does this mean you’ll stay?” Severus asked.

“For a bit.” Anne took one of his hands and began gently scratching off the specks of silver paint that had transferred onto his skin. “Tell me about these articles you saved for me.”

* * *

At the word “dismissed,” Neville bolted up from his desk with the rest of the students, swinging his bag over his shoulder—

—and into the row of empty glass vials on the shelf behind him. The bottles clanged as they rattled off the ledge, then shattered in tinkling bursts as they hit the floor.

The Potions classroom went dead silent. Every eye in the room turned to Snape. 

Except, of course, for Snape’s eyes, which turned to Neville. 

The professor stood frozen at the front of the room, his shoulders tensed like he’d just been hit with a shock of cold water. In that suspended moment, every instinct in Neville screamed at him to _run,_ forget all the rules and just run and run and save himself from whatever terror was about to waken. He held his ground.

Snape clenched his eyes shut, drawing in a deep breath. Then he opened them, raised his wand and said: “ _Phialam Reparo.”_

Glass clinked on the floor behind Neville. By the time he turned his head, the broken slivers had melded back into a dozen scattered bottles.

“A reminder to everyone,” Snape said, his voice strained but soft, “to be mindful of delicate objects when moving about this room. Longbottom—put those back up on the shelf. _Carefully.”_

“Yes, professor.” Neville ducked to collect the vials.

Taking a seat at his desk, Snape flipped open a large book. The other students shuffled out of the classroom, a few snickering, but most just exchanging disappointed whispers.

Neville used two hands to pick up each bottle and arrange it back into place on the shelf. When he finished, he turned to Snape, waiting to see what other punishment might be in store for him, but the professor simply gave him a nod and motioned to the door.

On dazed auto-pilot legs, Neville took his leave. Tiny shards of suspicion that had been stabbing at him for the past few weeks suddenly flew into place to form one mind-boggling realization: _this_ was how Potions class was and would be from now on. No more mysterious stomach aches the period before. No more panic attacks every time Snape glanced at him. No more gruelling hours of detention for every single clumsy accident. It was over, for real. For good.

As he stepped out into the hallway, he plucked the Empathy Stone from his pocket and rested it on his palm like a ring on a pillow. It hardly mattered whether the gem really worked (to be honest, he doubted it—kids hadn’t been picking on him much lately, but they certainly weren’t any _nicer_ to him); it marked the momentous occasion on which one area of his woeful life _did_ get better, proving that hope was still alive and fighting. He would treasure this stone, always, holding it close and dear to him as a reminder that—

“Smooth move, clutz.” The taunting voice came with a hard shove against his back.

The stone flew out of Neville’s hand, bounced across the floor of the corridor and rolled into a crack between two cobblestones. He dove after it, kneeling bent down to search, but the crack was actually more of a hole, deep and shadowed.

“Oh, _perfect,”_ the voice behind him laughed. “Target practice.” Turning his head, Neville saw Draco Malfoy standing over him, right leg drawn back, ready to kick the seat of his pants. Four other Slytherin students stood clustered nearby, snickering.

Neville shut his eyes, bracing himself for the blow.

“Draco, leave him alone.”

When he opened his eyes, Malfoy’s foot was down and his mouth was gaping back at the speaker— _Pansy Parkinson_ , of all people! Pansy Parkinson who hated Neville, who could barely say a non-insulting word to him even when he was trying to help her in Herbology class. 

Neville’s mouth dropped even farther down than Malfoy’s, and Pansy glanced back and forth between the two of them, her face reddening.

Malfoy burst out in astonished laughter. _“Why?”_ he asked, swaggering over to her. “Since when do you have a soft spot for wimpy worms crawling on the floor?” He leaned in close to her, grinning. “Or are you bored of me already? Got a new crush, Pans?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Grow up. It’s _Longbottom—_ what can you possibly do to him to make his life any worse than it already is? Besides, we’re late for Charms.” She turned, pulling the girl next to her along by the arm. “ _Some_ of us want to make something of ourselves some day.”

“The hell’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Malfoy stomped after her, the rest of their band turning to watch this new drama unfold. “I _made_ something of myself two years ago when I _made_ the Quidditch team. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Would you calm down? Bloody Baron, I only meant—”

“I’ll make prefect by next year, just you wait and see.”

The bickering faded away down the corridor, with Neville left forgotten on his knees. Well, that confirmed it—the Empathy Stone did nothing to sway the random cruelty and kindness of his peers.

But he still wanted it back. He hunched down, using his wand to fish inside the crevice for his lost gem.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall dozed in a sunbeam on the deep sill of her high classroom window, purring contentedly with her tail tucked beneath her chin. After decades donning the trappings of a cat on and off like a shawl, one began to appreciate the things cats treasure by nature—such as afternoon sunlight through west-facing windows.

A knock rapped against the closed door of her classroom, startling her back to consciousness. After arching her back in a quick stretch, Minerva leapt down from the window onto her desk, then her desk chair. Regaining her human form, she picked up a paper and squinted at it.

“Yes?” she called. “Come in.”

The door opened and Severus strode down the aisle toward her, his face even more drawn and serious than usual.

“If this is about the stink pellet fight in the long gallery,” she said, peering over her glasses, “I assure you, the guilty parties have been reprimanded.”

“Good. But that’s not why I’m here.” He stood in front of her desk, his eyes glued down to its surface in that way that suggested the matter at hand was more distasteful than even stink pellets. “I’ve heard that you’ve been giving instruction to some of the Gryffindor students.” He cleared his throat. _“Dance_ instruction.”

Minerva’s eyes widened. “Have you not been doing the same with your house?”

“Most of my house comes from pure-blood families. They’ve known the traditional dances since childhood. Of course, there are some exceptions.” Severus’s hands fidgeted. “I, for one, am only half-blood.”

She blinked at him. “What is it you’re saying? That you want me to teach you the dance?” She almost laughed at the ridiculous notion—but then he looked up at her, and his eyes were nervous and stone-serious. Her stomach sank. “Oh.”

He gave a slight nod, the rest of him held rigid as a hare before it flees.

“You know,” Minerva sighed, “I don’t think anyone _expects_ the heads of houses to dance as these things. No one will notice if you simply sit it out.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” When he met her gaze again, her sympathetic expression seemed to offend him. Brow creasing, he added, a bit sharply: “I have a date.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I see.”

Severus rolled his eyes, huffing. “If you must know, I’m seeing Anne Swanson. We’re to disclose it at the Yule Ball—I trust you can keep it in confidence until then?”

“I… Well… Yes, of course.” She nodded dumbly, trying not to betray her profound shock. Anne? With Severus? When? _How?_ After the incident with Neville Longbottom, Minerva had assumed they were no longer even speaking (then again, this certainly explained the rumours of Severus’s subsequent civilness).

“Well?” he asked, his hands wringing. For a brief instant, he looked very much like the awkward, sulky boy who’d once stood here in her transfiguration classroom as a student. “I understand it’s an unusual request. If you’re not comfortable providing instruction—”

“I’ll teach you,” she said, standing from her chair and rounding the desk toward him. “The main dance isn’t terribly complicated, but the footwork does require a bit of practice if you’ve never danced before. Which, I assume…”

Severus conceded the point with a nod and another eye roll.

Minerva clasped his shoulders and turned him towards her. He’d certainly grown a good deal since he was her student; at this closeness, she had to crane her neck to meet his eye. “My left hand goes here.” She patted his shoulder. “Your right, here.” She guided it to her waist, then took his free hand in her own. “At the ball, you will lead—but for now, shadow me.”

His head bent to watch their feet and she had to grip his shoulder to keep him from pulling too far back.

“And… _One, two, three. One, two, three.”_

* * *

“Yeh don’ _ask_ someone teh the Yule Ball,” Hagrid groaned, holding open the Entrance Hall door for Anne and Pomona. “Not if yer staff. It’s kid stuff.”

“Oh, but I think it’s sweet,” Anne said. She glanced to the older witch for support as they passed under Hagrid’s arm.

“Very sweet,” trusty Pomona agreed.

“It’s ridiculous,” Hagrid said. “An’ even if it wasn’, no fine lady wants teh go teh a ball with the ruddy likes o’ me.”

“You’ll never know unless you ask her,” Anne said. 

As they approached the dinner din of the Great Hall, she spotted her own secret Yule Ball date hovering by the doorway. He fiddled with something in his hand, his eyes scanning the foyer. 

When they landed on her, Severus stepped forward. “May I have a word?”

“Sure.” Anne waved a small goodbye to Hagrid, but tugged Pomona back a moment to whisper: “Talk some sense into him, _please.”_

The witch nodded, giggling, and chased after Hagrid.

Pointing with a tilt of his head, Severus led Anne away from the Hall to a quiet corner of the foyer. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night,” he said in a low voice, “and I wondered if you might help me with something. Something _important.”_ He raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah?” She broke out in a grin. Was he actually letting her in on a job for Albus? If he’d changed his mind and opened to the idea, maybe telling him about all the work she’d already done wouldn’t be the train wreck she’d been dreading.

“What’s the plan?” Anne whispered, thanking him with her happiness projected at full strength. “Who do we talk to?”

“It’s not that kind of plan.” Severus held out his fist and dropped a small, squishy object into her hand—a rubber band. “Slip that over your wrist. I need you to keep an eye out at dinner. If anyone from Durmstrang leaves the Great Hall, snap the band.”

Brow furrowing, Anne pulled the elastic over her hand. “Snap the band?”

“It’s not my best work,” he admitted, lifting his sleeve to show an identical band encircling his arm. “I just needed an alert without sound or light.” To demonstrate, he pulled back his elastic; when he let go, Anne felt the sting on her own wrist.

“Ow. An alert for what?”

“A bit of prying somewhere I’m not technically supposed to be. I’ll tell you about it afterward. Right now, please, just keep an eye on the Durmstrangs?”

Anne’s jaw clenched as the puzzle pieces fell into place—and the picture showed her as more of a pet than a partner.

“So let me get this straight,” she hissed. “You’re about to _break into_ the Durmstrang ship to dig for dirt on Karkaroff when there is none, and I’m out here as what? Your _lookout?”_ She yanked back the band on her wrist and snapped it hard.

Severus winced. “Merlin’s beard, Anne, what the—? Wait. How do you know that? How do you know about Karkaroff?”

This was not the time or place she’d intended to tell him, but his condescension spurred her. “I know he’s clean because I _talked_ to him. Because I’m empathic and I can do that. I don’t have to break into people’s homes, I can just _talk_ to them to find things out!”

He stared at her a moment, his mind churning, and then his mouth fell open. “Godric. _You’re_ Albus’s new informant.”

“Look, I was going to tell you—” Her voice blew away as she sensed his rage, roaring up with the speed and strength of a hurricane. She’d felt his temper before, but this was so much more than mere anger. It was a sickening cyclone picking up fear and loss and vengeance like debris, hurling it around inside him with devastating, destructive force.

“I told you to stay out of this!” Severus snapped, his voice raising above a whisper for the first time. He caught hold of it quickly, forcing it lower, but the purpling of his pallor made clear the effort it took him. “This whole time, you’ve been lying to me. Keeping me in the dark. And you know, you _know_ what I went through after Lily…”

“Sev, please, all I did was talk to a few—”

“I can’t—I can’t—” He recoiled back from her, a clenched fist raising to his mouth. “I can’t do this right now. I’ll end us.” His speech strained through gritted teeth while his mind howled out angry terror at a deafening pitch. “I can’t _believe_ that you would… That Albus would… And _Karkaroff?_ Nine hells, Anne, _if something had happened—”_ He bit off his words, shaking his head as he stepped further back. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He started to speak again, then forced his fist back over his mouth and turned away.

Which is right when, at the other end of the foyer, the headmaster happened to emerge from the Great Hall. 

_“Albus!”_ Severus roared, storming over.

Flinching, Albus turned toward them. A sudden slump of his shoulders showed he’d realized what he was in for. Anne’s arms raised in a helpless shrug of apology, then fell defeated to her sides.


	28. Worth Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne held the door wide open to him, her stomach knotting. “I’m really sorry, Sev. I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you.”
> 
> “No, you shouldn’t have.” Severus stepped in past her, pausing to stand in the middle of the room, his hands fidgeting, his mind chaotic as sea spray. “The question is, would you have told me at all if Albus hadn’t pushed you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been racking my brain the last few days to think of an Anne & Sev song (I love the ones you guys suggested) and I can't find one that really strikes me as perfect for them! All I've got is a sad pre-Anne song for Severus: Losing Battles (the acoustic version by Josh Ritter and The Milk Carton Kids). Please let me know if you think of any others! I've started a Spotify playlist, lol. :)

“Pair of ravenous sharks,the two of you are,” Severus spat, pacing back and forth across the office. “I give you _everything,_ everything you’ve ever asked of me, and still you go and grab for the _one thing_ I told you to let alone. The _one thing_ you know actually matters to me.”

Albus sat with his hands folded on top of his desk, holding his tongue as he had for most of the past half hour. Best to let the man’s rage run itself out. Surely, at this point, Severus couldn’t have much more left in him—he was forming full sentences again now, and at an almost painless volume. Only one of the veins on his forehead was still bulging and most of the purple had faded from his complexion.

“And _her._ Here I am tearing my hair out, practically grovelling to try to bridge whatever rift I’ve cut between us, and all this time it’s this bloody _secret_ she’s been keeping from me. I turned my life upside-down for her. There’s a _Christmas tree_ in my living room.” Severus whirled to face the desk, snarling. _“I took a dance lesson for her.”_

“My.” Albus fought to limit his expression of astonishment to just that one word.

Severus put both hands over his face, letting out a long groan. “I need a list of everyone she talked to. I know Karkaroff already—everyone else.”

“Perhaps this would be best coming from Anne.”

“No. No, I can’t be around her like this. I’m too angry and I’ll tell her—” His teeth gritted and his volume pitched again. _“—what a lying little vulture she’s been, feeding on my heart like carrion—”_ He stopped himself, exhaling, and his voice lowered. “I’ll get mean and I’ll lose her again.” He turned back to the desk, tapping on a blank sheet of parchment. “Find a quill. I need that list.”

“What’s done is done,” Albus said, sighing. “What does it matter now?”

“It matters because I won’t sleep without it. I won’t sleep until I know just how much worrying I have to do.”

Shaking his head, Albus reached for a quill and scribbled the first name: _Hermione Granger._

“I can’t believe she did this to me,” Severus muttered.

As gently as he could, Albus said: “You know her actions had nothing to do with you. She wasn’t trying to hurt you.” 

“Well she did.”

_Harry Potter. Fred Weasley. Draco Malfoy._

Setting his quill aside for a moment, Albus looked up and steadied himself for the truth he knew he had to speak, as a friend. “This isn’t a battle you can win, Severus. You fall in love with women of integrity, and they fight for what’s right. You might shout and guilt and bully a promise out of Anne today, but sooner or later, she’s going to join the fight.”

“You’d better pray you’re wrong about that,” Severus said, glowering, “because I’d rather lose her love than risk losing her entirely. The day she joins the fight is the day one of us leaves Hogwarts. It’ll be your choice.”

He thrust his finger down at the parchment. “Names. _Write.”_

* * *

Anne stood at her living room window, fiddling with the rubber elastic around her wrist as she watched the sky over the greenhouses fade to its evening indigo.

She pulled back the band, then paused. What were the chances Severus had even kept his on? She’d tried him once last night and twice today, gently snapping out the start of a well-known rhythm and waiting for him to snap back its ending, but he hadn’t responded. Either he’d taken it off after their quarrel yesterday or he simply wasn’t ready to communicate yet, by any means.

Still, there was no harm in trying. Anne let the rubber band slap down lightly against her wrist, singing along with the rhythm under her breath: “Shave... and-a hair… cut…”

Knock... Knock.

The moment the raps landed on her door, she sensed Severus’s mind open behind it, overcast and threatening, but no longer storming. She ran to let him in.

“Very cute,” he said dryly, holding up his rubber-banded wrist. He met her eyes with a steady gaze, but underneath he seemed scattered, as though he’d wandered out for a walk and had ended up here by accident.

She held the door wide open to him, her stomach knotting. “I’m really sorry, Sev. I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He stepped in past her, pausing to stand in the middle of the room, his hands fidgeting, his mind chaotic as seaspray. “The question is, would you have told me at all if Albus hadn’t pushed you?”

Anne bit her lip. She’d been asking herself that question lately. “I would have. Eventually.”

Severus gave a small laugh without a trace of humour to it, his eyes closing as if to contain the new swarm of anger that had hatched. “What a fool I’ve been. I’ve tried _everything_ to make things right with you. I’ve been clamouring about like a dog trying to earn your trust back and all the while you’ve kept this enormous secret from me.”

“I… You’re right. I’m sorry. It started when we were broken up, and then after we got back together… I didn’t know how to tell you.”

He glared at her. “Seems like you could have told me a few nights ago, when you said you _wanted_ to start working for Albus. Seems like it would have been the ideal moment to mention you’d _already_ been hissing information to him for weeks behind my back.”

“The ideal moment?” Anne scoffed, her own temper heating. “Sure. ‘We can talk about it.’ Isn’t that what you said? But you didn’t mean it, because you’d already made your mind up. Your stubbornness came ringing out loud and clear.”

“So you decided to keep lying to me instead. When was I supposed to find out? When you turned up dead?”

“Griffins, Severus.” She rolled her eyes. “I was only _talking_ to people. It was mostly teen gossip—who’s got beef with Harry Potter, who’s upset they didn’t qualify for the tournament. There was nothing dangerous—”

“You don’t know that. I’ve met sixteen-year-old Death Eaters in my time. Not to mention not to mention Metamorphmagi. Illusion spells. Polyjuice Potion.”

 _“You_ were about to break into an ex-Death Eater’s ship. How’s that less dangerous than me chatting up Karkaroff in the middle of the Quad?” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m basically a human lie detector, and you asked me to be your _lookout._ Do you not see how patronizing that is?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near Karkaroff,” Severus said, his finger raising like a scolding parent. “You don’t know him like I do. Even if he’s not a Death Eater anymore, he’d still hand you over to the Dark Lord gift-wrapped if he thought it would save him an inch of his skin.”

“And what would he do if he caught you on his ship?”

“I knew the risks I was taking—I forfeited my life to this nonsense fourteen years ago.”

“Yeah, well, your life’s changed since then.” Anne folded her arms over her chest. “We’re in this together now. If I can have a ten-minute conversation with someone so you don’t have to take an actual risk, I’m going to do it.”

“And what happens when it takes more than schoolyard gossip?” he asked, a note of desperation entering his voice. “What happens when the conversation leads you down to Knockturn Alley, or to actual bloody Death Eaters? You don’t even know how to defend yourself if something goes wrong.”

“So teach me.”

“Absolutely not! I’d rather be Cruciated.” 

Her eyebrows shot up. He _meant_ that.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. “I just can’t have you mixed up in this war,” he said, hanging his head. “I can't function like this, worrying about you. Godric, Anne, don’t you feel what it’s doing to me?” 

As he said the words, cold exhaustion settled on him like dew, weighing down the dust enough to unveil the pain at his core. She knew he had wounds hidden there—some she’d only found recently, old ones that had scarred over badly as far back as childhood—but there was one hurt in particular she’d sensed right from the start, a chronic cut that would never fully heal. It flared up in him from time to time, bleeding and aching, but not like this. Never split wide open like this.

She put her hand to her mouth. “It’s brought it all back, hasn’t it? Everything with Lily.”

He nodded, staring down at his hands with his jaw clenched. “I can’t go through that again. Not the fear of watching for your death, and certainly not the misery that comes afterwards. Not again.”

Anne reached for his hand, wondering how she’d ever deluded herself into believing their quarrel was simple, that his reaction would be stubborn anger with nothing of substance underneath. She’d let herself paint him in caricature contrasts of black and white, shunning the pesky complexity of actual human emotion. It was easier to justify her secrecy when it was her life and her ability to do with what she liked with it, and Severus just had to deal with it. Yes, put simply, that was right—but in relationships, being right wasn’t all there was to it, because feelings weren’t right or wrong. Feelings were more complex.

“Promise me you’ll stay out of this,” Severus begged, holding her hand to his heart. “That when the war starts again, you won’t join the fight. I know it isn’t fair, but it’s what I need. Please promise me.”

She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

His mouth stretched in a grim line as he nodded, his mind trapped in the cramped pen of the problem—restless with nowhere to turn, exhausted with nowhere to lie down. “I don’t know what to say. I just know I can’t go through this again. With Lily… I love her, but we never had anything like this. We weren’t even friends when she died, and part of me still died with her. If something were to happen to you…” He shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

Anne didn’t know either, but she couldn’t stand just watching his pain. She laced her arms under his and held him as tightly as she could, projecting her love for him. 

It helped. No matter the situation, it always helped.

“We’ll figure it out,” she murmured into his softening shoulder.

“How?”

He sounded so hopeless, she pulled back to meet his eye and even dared a small smile. “It’s going to be okay, Sev. We’ve got some time. There’s no war currently waging, and lucky you—I’ve run out of teenagers worth questioning about the Goblet. For the time being, I’ve got no trouble to get into.”

Even the mention of the Goblet of Fire set clouds of worry thundering on his horizon. “At least promise me you’ll…” Severus’s words died with a shake of his head. “I don’t even know what to ask.”

“I promise I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “I promise we’ll talk about it before I do anything else. No more secrets. We’ll talk about it and we’ll figure it out.”

The moment Anne heard her own words, she recognized them as the ones she’d been needing to say to herself. She’d let Severus back into the home of her heart, but she’d kept many rooms of it roped off, waiting for him to turn mean and disappoint her again. She’d pushed him away, and in the space between them an abscess had formed, a shadowed cavity where she could stow the parts of herself she didn’t trust him with, just as he’d long done with her. It seemed easier, more convenient, to just hide things away there, but of course eventually they would begin to rot and stink and ache. Empaths knew that, though they too sometimes let themselves forget.

If you love someone, Anne reminded herself, they’re worth fighting for and, when need be, fighting with. They’re worth the risk of getting hurt.

She took a deep breath, and then she opened—fully. “Forgive me. Stay here tonight.”

Severus looked at her a long moment, that same protective seed of distrust quivering in his mind, threatening to take root as her searched her face. He took a heavy breath. 

Nodding, he cast the seed aside and pulled her back in against him. 


	29. His

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burying his face in the scent of her pillow, he pushed their troubles aside. They'd fight that battle another day, and for however many days it took to talk Anne out of her intrepid folly. This day, at least, she was safe and here and his.
> 
> Or was she?
> 
> Frowning, Severus lifted his head and scanned the surface of her nightstand again. Something about it looked wrong. Something was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAHHHHHH it's the second last chapter! I'm most of the way through writing the final one (it's going to be a long one!) and super excited to post it next Sunday, but nine hells am I going to miss writing this thing and having all you lovely people reading along with me as I go. :)

Anne was up and out of bed when he awoke, clattering around in the next room with her mind doing the empathic equivalent of whistling a tune. That was normal. At least, it was normal for the last brief and blissful period they’d shared a bed together. She was an early bird, he a night owl.

Shielding his eyes with his elbow (her bedroom was much brighter than his), Severus rolled to sprawl across her side of the bed. Excessive sunlight aside, it was good to be back here. For the first time in weeks, things felt truly right between him and Anne. He’d stayed the night talking to her, touching her, making love to her, sleeping with her curled against his back. There were still tiny bruises on her heart that made her tense up when he wandered across them, but that was all right. They were fading, and more importantly, she’d finally opened enough to let him see them. No more shadows.

He opened his eyes to check the time, but his glance caught on a small object in front of her nightstand clock: the rubber band he’d given her. It didn’t need to snap to sting him; its presence called to mind the promise Anne couldn’t make to him, her willfulness, the coming war. How little control he had over any of it. 

Burying his face in the scent of her pillow, he pushed those troubles aside. He’d fight that battle another day, and for however many days it took to talk Anne out of her intrepid folly. This day, at least, she was safe and here and his.

Or was she?

Frowning, Severus lifted his head and scanned the surface of her nightstand again. Something about it looked wrong. Something was missing.

By the time he realized what it was, the fog of sleep had lifted from him and he rolled himself out of bed.

He was washed and dressed when Anne came sauntering into the room a few minutes later, humming under her breath and wearing only a sweater and underwear (this too was normal, before breakfast, and was yet another aspect of staying over he’d badly missed). She started to grin at him, resting the pile of folded clothes she carried onto her dresser, and then her brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Sitting on the edge of her side of the bed, Severus flicked his chin to her nightstand. “You don’t keep my sensovial by your bed anymore.”

“I moved it when we broke up.” She shrugged with a casualness she wasn’t actually feeling. “It’s down in my classroom with the rest of my collection.”

“Ah,” he said with a grim nod. He knew full well what she did with the glass orb that contained his feelings for her; during their Occlumency practice, he’d caught several tantalizing glimpses of it clasped to her flushed, heaving chest late at night. He’d never said anything about it—it was one of many intimate moments she hadn’t intended him to see—but it made him feel close to her. It made him feel wanted.

“We’ve been back together a while now,” Severus said, watching her carefully and scanning through her projected emotions with the full concentration of his limited empathic experience. If Anne was no longer taking his gift to bed with her, perhaps she hadn’t fully welcomed him back into it either. “I might have hoped the sensovial would make its way back here.”

Anne shrugged again, and this time her downcast eyes matched the complicated swirl of feeling in her. He couldn’t fully parse it, but he caught quick glimmers as they flashed by: longing, dejection, resentment. Coating it all was an excruciating vulnerability, as though she were forcing herself to hold her head high while she stripped naked in a crowd. He’d sensed a hint of that feeling from her once before, in his apartment, when she’d told him…

Suddenly he understood. And suddenly the way forward didn’t seem so complicated. Not compared to the other things they’d fought through together.

“You know,” Severus said, his mouth spreading in a hint of a smile, “there’s one little matter we still haven’t corrected.” He stood from the bed, picking up the rubber band from her nightstand and holding it out to her. “You snapped this on me in the foyer. Hard. It was rather cheeky of you.” 

There was a faint warning in his tone, and the way Anne’s mouth fell slightly open—just for a brief instant—told him she’d caught it. But she put on an air of insolence and shrugged at him once more. “You deserved it.”

“And what do you deserve in return?” He crossed the room to her, folding his arms. “Perhaps a lesson in controlling those impish impulses of yours. A bit of discipline to make you think before you act next time.”

Now he had her full attention. Her lips parted as apprehension began to flicker across her mind—and a craving blazed up like a bonfire, without him even touching her. A blush spread across her cheeks as her eyes dropped from his.

And Merlin help him if he didn’t like it.

“I wonder, what manner of discipline should I use to punish you?” Severus mused aloud, stepping in close to tower over her. “Shall I clap you in irons?”

He’d meant it only as a tease, but it sparked a reaction in her that nearly set his eyebrows raising. Godric, she really _did_ like it, and not as some passing whim set off by witnessing his own dark eccentricities. There was a kind of desperate hopefulness behind her longing that suggested this was something she’d been waiting for, something she’d gotten her hopes kicked up and stomped down for more than once. Had he really been so preoccupied all this time with his own insecurities that he’d missed such an obvious and delightfully deviant streak in her?

Encouraged, Severus let slip one of his own fantasies: “Perhaps I should keep you gagged and bound, levitating naked over your bed for the rest of the morning.”

Anne’s eyes widened and a blip of alarm told him he’d overshot.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered as he stepped back, his composure faltering. _Nine hells, Severus, just because she likes being tied up doesn’t mean you can unleash the full depravity of your perversions on her._ “Too far. I’m just… I’m still trying to navigate—”

“I know. It’s okay.” Anne reached for his hand, pulling him back to her. She smiled up at him, her trepidation set off to the side for the moment like a paper mask. “This is new, for both of us. I’ll open up to more things as we go, I promise. Please don’t let me discourage you.” Stepping up on her toes, she kissed him, her desire searing his mouth. “And please, Sev, for Merlin’s sake don’t stop.”

Rallying his confidence, Severus gripped her by the elbows and forced her back down. “I’ll ask you to address me more formally when you’re being disciplined."

A grin glinted around the corners of her mouth. “Yes, sir.”

Looking her up and down, he fought to remember some of the urges she’d openly invited in him, back when he was still shoving away her suggestions. “Now that I think about it, your misbehaviour was rather childish. Perhaps I ought to simply turn you over my knee and spank you.”

The excitement buzzing through Anne declared that proposal the winner, but she cast it in iron when she crossed her arms over her chest and cracked off: “You wouldn’t dare. Besides, I bet you hit like my grandmother.”

Severus nearly burst out laughing. The naughty little minx—she was _baiting_ him.

In the span of two seconds, he twisted his arm around her waist, bent her forward and brought his hand down against the creamy curves left exposed by her scant panties. He gave her a swat on each cheek, both hard enough to ring in his ears and leave the shape of his hand reddening on her skin. 

Anne gasped, and for an instant he feared he’d overstepped again. Then the shock wore off her and she poured off heat and hunger like a fever, infecting his senses and spurring on the physical reaction that had already started in him.

“That settles it,” he said. “A sound spanking is in order.” Releasing her, he walked to the end of her bed and sat down with his knees spread apart. He didn’t call her, just stared expectantly at her as he patted the top of his thigh.

Anne’s face turned a rather appealing shade of pink. She’d anticipated being forced over his lap, he realized, but she wasn’t getting away with it that easily. She’d wanted this, earned it, and he intended to make her submit. 

A moment later, when she still hadn’t moved, he shot her a look. _“Anne,”_ he said in a low, warning tone. She crossed the room to him, steaming off an intoxicating cocktail of embarrassment and arousal.

When he had her standing between his knees, he asked her: “Are you going to be good and keep your hands clasped together through this, or do I need to bind them?”

Her want shivered across the projection to him, and just as he’d anticipated, she held out her hands.

Severus reached for his wand, and for a spell he’d thought up way back in the throes of adolescent lechery: _“Crinis Vinculum.”_ The length of Anne’s hair snaked forward, coiling its ends around her wrists in a brown braided rope. She flinched.

“Too much?” he asked, putting a hand to the side of her knee.

“No. It startled me, that’s all.”

“Well then…” With a tilt of his head, he gestured to his leg. “Over you go.”

He sensed her stifle a groan, and when she bent over to lay her hips across his thigh with her chest and elbows on the bed behind him, her humiliation was so exquisite it made his breath catch. Shame had always been central to his sadistic fantasies, but now, experiencing it through her as he inflicted it, it was even more stimulating than he’d imagined. The irony briefly occurred to him—how his most hated emotion had the power to transfix and electrify him when filtered under the red glow of sex.

Taking a deep inhale to steady himself, he pushed it to the next level: “Spread your knees apart and arch your back.” His hands guided her legs, pressed down the small of her back, until she was posed and presented just the way he wanted her. When his burning response to _that_ visual reached her senses, he heard her muffled moan against the bedsheet. 

“Hold this position, Anne,” he instructed her, running his hand over the swell of her bottom, up and down the insides of her thighs. Hands definitely had their benefits in the sensuality department, but they had never been his first choice for causing pain. The question was, what was Anne’s choice and how would he offer it to her?

“This lesson ought to sting a great deal more than my hand can manage,” he said after a moment, still caressing her. “Ideally, it should sting like the snap of a rubber band, or perhaps a leather strap. I’ve got a spell that can do the trick. _However,_ since it’s your first offense, I’ll be charitable. If you’d rather I be lenient, now’s the time to beg my apology for that naughty little dig earlier—that I hit like your grandmother.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Any new thoughts on the matter?”

He knew from the amusement shimmering in Anne, even before she twisted her head back to him, that her impertinence hadn’t yet run its course.

“Well, that depends,” she said, her eyelashes batting like a doe’s.

“Oh? On what?”

A wicked grin spread across her lips. “Which grandmother do you mean?”

Dear Godric, he was going to enjoy this.

“Right,” he said, picking up his wand. Severus had invented a great many pain-inflicting spells in his youth; _Sectumsempra_ was, of course, his most well-known, but it was actually the last and most brutal in a series of tool-wielding experimentations. He called to mind a clear image of the implement he wanted for his current purpose—a leather strap, wide and heavy, but also supple and well-worn—and spoke: _“Lorumtempra.”_

He tapped his wand over one of the still-red blotches he’d left on Anne’s skin and she yelped over the smacking sound of the blow. It had definitely hurt, but the deep need pouring out of her head urged him on. He struck the mark on her other cheek, then set out reddening new territory.

Anne squirmed, but held her posture, radiating out a strange, over-stimulated feeling that blurred between everything he knew of pain and pleasure, encompassing them and surpassing them. When he hit the right spot with the right force, it brought an intensity that went beyond fear and desire, beyond good and bad. 

It was ecstasy.

“You’re to continue wearing that rubber band,” he told her, tapping high on her left thigh. “The next time I decide you’re in need of disciplining, you’ll feel my warning on your wrist. Enchant it to look like a bracelet if you want, but the band stays on. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she panted.

“Good. And let this be a reminder of what will happen—” He gave her a particularly hard strike where he knew she’d feel it sitting down later. “—if you ever, _ever_ snap it on me like that again.”

It was only a game. Severus knew that. It was only the illusion of torture, of submission, of control. He could no more own her than he could own a sunrise, no more command her than he could command his own heart. Yet here in this one moment, for the duration of their play, she gave herself over to him completely, to possess, to do with as he liked. She was his.

He brought his wand down again and Anne gave a moan that was both suffering and satisfaction, her feelings braiding with his own in a solid, secure way they never had before. A new kind of connection.


	30. The Yule Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you see them?” Lavender shouted, her hands flying out at her sides. “You’re absolutely not going to believe it!”
> 
> Gossip! In a heartbeat, Parvati was off Harry’s arm and gripping Lavender’s. “Who? Did Pansy Parkinson wear pink again? It’s hideous on her. Tell me everything.”
> 
> “Shhh–shhh–shhh–look!”
> 
> The chatter in the foyer died to whispers as two figures began their descent from the top of the stairs. Their hands were clasped together; the woman’s other hand reached across her chest to hold the man’s arm.
> 
> Swanson and Snape.

“We have to hang back,” Parvati Patil snapped at her date, tugging his arm to keep him from waltzing right in through the Great Hall doors. “We’re supposed to wait here in the foyer. The champions and their dates make a special entrance.”

“Right, sorry,” Harry muttered. Longing flashed across his face as he watched Ron and Padma traipse off into the Hall to find their seats.

Parvati sighed and straightened his bowtie. For Merlin’s sake, it was The Yule Ball and he was a Triwizard Champion. Maybe this was nothing to a Famous Person like Harry Potter, but to Parvati, who’d snagged herself a celebrity date and had her dress specially made and spent the last five hours menacing her hair into perfection, it was a Big Deal. It was a Big, Fat, Humongous, Gargantuan Deal.

A squeal erupted through the foyer and an instant later Lavender shoved through the crowd of dawdling students, her white crinoline underskirt rustling behind her as she ran towards them. _Finally,_ someone who understood the magnitude of the evening.

“Hey, Lav,” Parvati called casually, holding Harry’s arm tight to her like a winning prize bouquet. She didn’t want to make her best friend _too_ jealous. Just a little jealous.

“Did you _see_ them?” Lavender shouted, her hands flying out at her sides. “You’re absolutely not going to believe it!”

Gossip! In a heartbeat, Parvati was off Harry’s arm and gripping Lavender’s. “Who? Did Pansy Parkinson wear pink again? It’s hideous on her. Tell me everything.”

“Shhh–shhh–shhh– _look!”_

The chatter in the foyer died to whispers as two figures began their descent from the top of the stairs. Their hands were clasped together; the woman’s other hand reached across her chest to hold the man’s arm.

Swanson and Snape.

Parvati’s mouth fell open. Merlin. In. Red. Lipstick.

“You _totally_ called this,” Lavender whispered, bouncing on her toes. “Snape must have given her the gold sensovial. You need to major in Divination, girl, because you are _psychic!”_

Hogwarts’ newest gossip-worthy couple ( _Snapeson? Anverus? Severanne?_ ) made their way down the staircase, the path parting for them by awed, staring students. Swanson wore a floor-length gown (bateau neckline, cinched waist, lightweight flowing skirt—all in a deep burgundy that totally worked for her colouring) and smiled sweetly at everyone. Snape, who wore his usual black outfit in a fancier material, glared. They passed right by where Parvati and Lavender stood clinging to one another. When they stepped through the doors, the foyer chatter kicked back up to a fever pitch, just as the crowd inside the Great Hall noticed them and fell silent.

Suddenly, Swanson’s hand flew to her temples and she stumbled. Snape caught her by the elbows.

Lavender dug her nails into Parvati’s arm, gasping. “That’s so embarrassing. And in front of everyone—”

“Shhh,” Parvati hissed. “What happened? Is she okay?”

Craning their necks to see in the doorway, the two girls watched Snape steady the woman to her feet. The couple whispered back and forth to one another in a flurry, then made their way down to the back of the hall.

“Awwwww,” Lavender sighed. Her bottom lip jutted and her free hand clasped against her ruffled bodice. Then, wrinkling her nose: “Gross. What do you think his bedroom looks like?”

Hands clapped sharply and McGonagall marched through the Hall doors. “Everyone inside. The ball is about to begin.” Turning toward Harry, she added: “Champions and dates, places please.”

Parvati and Lavender made lightning-speed micro-adjustments to each other’s hair. Then Lavender tore off into the Hall like a stampede in a ball gown and Parvati went to collect her date like a purse she’d left sitting on a chair.

“Ready?” she asked Harry, then groaned. His bowtie was crooked again.

* * *

“How’s your head?” Severus asked her quietly as desserts popped into existence across the plates on the staff table. It was the fourth time during the meal he’d asked and his concern hung heavy over him like a stormcloud.

“Really, I’m okay now,” Anne insisted. “It’s a ball, and they’re teenagers. I knew they couldn’t stay focused on us all night.”

Walking into the Great Hall had been intense—she’d nearly fainted. She could deal with people having strong feelings about her and she could deal with crowds, but _a crowd of people having strong feelings about her_ tested the limits of her empathic perception. Fortunately, ever since dinner began competing for attention from the students, Anne’s headache had been steadily fading.

Severus shook his head, sighing. “I still can’t believe I didn’t consider how overwhelming it might be for you. I should never have suggested—”

“Enough, Sev.” Anne laughed and reached to squeeze his wrist. “I’m happy we did it this way. It was a nice idea. Let’s just enjoy the evening, okay?” She raised an eyebrow at the slice of sugary lemon meringue pie on his plate and teased: “Careful. People might notice you have a sweet side.”

Shaking his head, he sniffed a faint laugh and cut into the delicate whipping with the side of his fork.

Anne turned to the rest of their company at the table. “By the way, Filius,” she said, loading a forkful of Black Forest cake, “the decorations are beautiful.” 

“Oh, thank you,” the little wizard answered from across the table, looking up approvingly at the huge Christmas trees at the front of the Hall. “The trees were a challenge, but they turned out better than I expected. I ran out of time and had to cut some corners with the falling snow ceiling, but fortunately everyone’s too preoccupied glancing over at you and Severus to notice.”

At Anne’s elbow, Pomona choked on her custard tart. Except for forced smiles and oh-isn’t-that-nices when she and Severus first sat down, no one had dared broach the topic of their relationship throughout dinner, though Anne could sense it was on the minds of the staff as much as the students. 

Now, it seemed, Filius had decided enough was enough. “So,” he said, twitching his finger back and forth between the couple, “when did _this_ start?”

“And _how_ did it start?” Pomona added, leaning forward with her chin propped in her hands.

“Oh,” Anne laughed, shrugging at Severus. “Well...” She took a deep breath to begin recounting their story.

Then she froze. Oh griffins, what could she actually tell them? Neither of them knew about her empathic ability, and she certainly couldn’t tell them about all the complications with Severus’s past and his work for Albus. It was hard to come up with a carefully edited version of the truth on the spot, but concocting a decent lie seemed even trickier. 

She stammered a moment, feeling her face heating. She had to say _something._

“It started shortly after Anne joined my seventh-year class,” Severus answered in his smooth low drawl, resting down his fork. “She hung back flirting after every lesson and eventually took up sneaking around with her Potions professor. It’s really rather scandalous.”

Anne’s mouth dropped open—she didn’t know whether to burst out laughing, elbow him in the side or kiss him. Severus smirked at her.

“So it was _your_ idea to keep it a secret?” Filius asked her, his grey eyebrows raising.

Fortunately, she never had to respond, because at that moment Albus called the room to attention and Filius scrambled down from his chair to ready his choir.

As the headmaster announced the first dance, Anne leaned in to whisper to her date: “I suppose I should thank you for sweeping in to save me with your slander.”

“It isn’t slander if it’s true, love,” Severus said. “All your winking and smiling at me through class, you made me forget half my lesson plan. And you really did have a secret affair with your professor.”

 _“You_ slept with one of your students."

“Godric, don’t say it like that.” He grimaced, watching the teenage Triwizard contestants and their dance partners shuffle awkwardly onto the floor.

The band struck up a waltz and the four pairs of students began their dance, moving in smooth turns and pivots like the automated figures of a mechanical jacquemart clock. For the moment, everyone’s attention was on the dance floor and Anne felt herself blended comfortably into the background. She rested her head in her hand as Albus invited the rest of the hall to join the dance, leading Madam Maxine as his own partner (Hagrid watched them dreamily from beside her empty chair at the other end of the table).

“Harry doesn’t seem like he’s having much fun out there,” Anne commented to Severus, then turned to find he was no longer sitting beside her. She glanced up and back.

He was standing with his hand outstretched to her.

She blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “I’m… You said you wanted to dance.”

“Yeah, to a slow dance or something. I don’t know any _fancy_ dances.” 

Anne stared, incredulous, as Severus dropped back into his seat. After the utter dread she’d sensed from him weeks ago when she’d suggested the idea, she would have bet a hundred galleons he’d never danced in all his life. The only thing she could have expected less than him knowing this elaborate traditional dance was him knowing it _and_ being disappointed that she didn’t. Yet there it was, ringing out from him loud and clear: disappointment, threaded with relief and a tinge of embarrassment. But why would he—?

Her hand flew up over her mouth. “Did you learn that dance for me?”

“It’s fine,” he said, pretending to be occupied watching the other couples.

“I’m so sorry, Sev. I never in a million years expected—”

“Severus!” Minerva hissed, shooting him a stern glance as she and Ludo Bagman twirled in front of their table. “Well? Aren’t you going to…?” She jerked her head toward Anne.

Oh griffins. Severus hadn’t just learned the dance—he’d sought out a _dance teacher._

He raised his palms to Minerva, shrugging grimly. “My date doesn’t know the steps.”

“I’m sorry, Minerva,” Anne sputtered, bending forward as a fit of giggles threatened to hijack her body. “We don’t have these kinds of dances in Canada.” 

She might have had a chance at controlling her laughter, if Albus hadn’t happened to circle past just then. The puzzled headmaster glanced back and forth between Severus and Minerva, met Anne’s bewildered eyes, and burst out in a low guffaw—so _he_ knew about the dance lesson as well!

It was too much. Anne buried her face in her hands and howled.

“I suppose it’s funny,” Severus muttered as her laughter finally calmed. He didn’t.

“Only because I sensed how much you hate dancing.” Wiping a tear from her cheek, she reached for his hand. “Thank you, Severus. This is just about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Come on, let’s dance. You can teach me.”

His lip curled in horror. “What? Right here?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “I don’t mind embarrassing myself—I already fell in front of the whole school tonight. And it’s a big dance floor, we can just hide near the back.”

“Right, I’m sure no one will notice us.” He groaned, shaking his head. “Haven’t we attracted enough attention this evening?”

Anne grinned at him. “Well you know how scandalous I am, Professor.”

* * *

Neville Longbottom lingered at the sweets table at the far corner of the hall, staring out onto the dancefloor with a face like he’d dropped his ice cream cone. Other than that, he actually looked pretty good tonight. Surprisingly good. His suit was tasteful and the obvious care he’d taken with his hair made him look older and less dork-like. He’d even seemed to know what he was doing out there on the dance floor with the Weasley girl.

There was no one else near the sweets table, so Pansy wandered over and picked up a plate. Neville was so enthralled staring at something he didn’t notice her standing there beside him. She followed his gaze, perplexed.

Of course. He was watching Snape and Swanson, just like everyone else tonight. The two teachers were up dancing together again at the back corner of the dance floor. This time it was a slow dance, at least, so the ridiculous airhead art teacher wasn’t making a complete fool of herself. She leaned in to whisper something in Snape’s ear and he laughed.

“I have no idea what he sees in her,” Pansy sneered.

Neville flinched, nearly spilling a pastry off his plate, and turned to her. “Oh. Hi Pansy. Wow.” He looked down at her pink dress. “You look really nice tonight.”

“Thanks.” She could feel her face reddening, in spite of herself. Shrugging, she busied herself with loading cookies onto her plate and mumbled: “You don’t clean up so bad yourself.”

“I never got to thank you,” Neville said, staring at his toes. “For stopping Draco from kicking me.”

Pansy waved her hand. “It was nothing. I don’t even remember it. Draco’s a bit much sometimes.” She glanced over to the opposite side of the hall to ensure her date was still gripped in one of his my-father’s-getting-me-whatever-expensive-Christmas-gift-thing brag sessions with Crabbe and Goyle and hadn’t spotted her here. “Besides, I guess I owed you one. You helped me out in Herbology and I… I guess I was kind of a jerk to you about it.” She rolled her eyes so he wouldn’t think she was actually apologizing.

“No big deal,” he said, shrugging. “Herbology’s pretty much the only class I’m any good at, anyway.” There was something in his sweet, self-deprecating smile that made Pansy’s stomach flutter.

“Maybe we could study together sometime,” she blurted, then internally kicked herself. _Studying?_ With _Neville Longbottom?_ On _purpose?_ That was just about the most embarrassing thing she could imagine getting caught doing.

“That would be nice,” he said quietly, still smiling in that way that reached right up to his big hazel-green eyes. The slow dance ended and Snape and Swanson walked back to their table, his hand on her back. When the next song started, Neville’s face lit up. “I love this song.” He turned to her, his eyes meeting hers and then dropping. “Um, you wouldn’t want to, uh…”

Pansy’s heart clenched in her chest. Bloody Baron, he was going to ask her to dance. There was no way in the nine hells she’d ever say yes, of course (dancing in public with Neville Longbottom— _that_ was officially the most embarrassing thing she could imagine), but still she found herself holding her breath, hungry for the rush of just hearing him say the words.

“I-I mean,” he stammered, “would you feel like, um—”

“Pansy?”

Standing on the dance floor, arms crossed over the bust of her Slytherin-silver gown, her best friend Samantha stood gawking back and forth between the two of them, confused and disgusted. 

Pansy turned up her nose and whirled away from Neville before he could finish his sentence.

“Were you just _talking_ to him?” Samantha snorted as Pansy hurried over to her.

“Ugh. I know, right?” Pansy rolled her eyes. “All I wanted was some shortbread and he just started blabbing away to me. It’s like, move over, butterball. Don’t hog the sweets table.”

Samantha cackled, reassured, and Pansy’s stomach unclenched. Linking arms, they sashayed back to their table, where Draco’s boasting had turned to exotic-places-my-father’s-taking-us-over-winter-break. Pansy took her seat beside him and he rested his arm across her shoulders without breaking his sentence.

She glanced back at the sweets table, where Neville still stood, moping down at his plate. If only she could have heard for certain what he was going to ask her. Well, she supposed she would have hurt his feelings by shooting him down anyway. Sadly, they had different lots in life, and that’s all there was to it. Pansy’s lot was to be pretty and popular and go to balls with non-embarrassing people, and Neville’s lot was to be a chronic dork who spent balls sulking alone, getting turned down for dances by—

The Weasley girl flitted over to the sweets table, her ruffled skirt rippling. She looked almost kind of pretty, if you could stand all that glossy red hair. She said something to Neville and held out her hand.

He took it, beaming, and they rushed out onto the dance floor.

The two of them laughed and twirled for the next seven songs in a row. Pansy watched them with narrowed eyes, grinding her shortbread cookies into powder with the back of her spoon.

* * *

“You’re leaving me to the wolves!” Anne cried, smacking him on the arm.

“What wolves?”

She flicked her eyes behind him. _“Those_ wolves.” 

Severus turned in his seat and a line of girls standing along the edge of the dance floor all glanced away at the same time. He groaned. For as much as it was nice, for once, to show up to one of these things with a date—a _beautiful_ date—it also made him feel like he’d spent the entire evening on-stage. It was exhausting.

“They’ve been watching us all night,” Anne said. “The second you go, they’ll swarm me with questions. You’re the only thing scaring them off.”

“All right,” he sighed, “I’ll stay to the end if you want.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I’ll have to face them at some point.” Shrugging, she laced her fingers through his. It was astounding how comfortable she was showing affection in public. “I can sense you’re pretty burnt out. Go hide away with your books. I’ve got lots of friends to stay and dance with.” She smiled, opening her mind to show there were no shadows hiding behind her words.

He was so relieved he would have kissed her, if not for the dozen pairs of eyes he could feel boring into the back of his head. “Will you come by afterward? I have something for you.”

“A Christmas gift?” Her smile brightened to her hundred watt grin. “Okay. Get out of here—I can’t wait to tell all those girls how sweet and romantic you secretly are.”

“Don’t you dare.”

The chair across the table from them pulled out and Brock Haberdash plopped down into it. Severus slid back his own chair, grateful for the good timing of his escape.

Then he noticed the man’s absolutely crushed expression, and stopped.

“So, you guys are together, huh?” Haberdash sulked. He looked like a peacock caught in a rainstorm, drooping and miserable. He looked like a shrivelled balloon two days after a party, like a sad, neglected monument crusted with pigeon droppings and dried-up chewing gum.

It was terrific.

“Yes, for a while now,” Anne said, throwing Severus a quick-as-lightning scowl. He shrugged back at her; she couldn’t seriously expect him not to enjoy this.

“I guess it all makes sense,” Haberdash said. “You two going flying that time…”

“Pretty obvious,” Severus agreed in a tone of false friendliness. “Why else would she have gone with a hapless plebe like me when she could have flown with you?”

Anne huffed.

“It all makes sense,” Haberdash repeated, sighing.

“Tell you what,” Severus said. “I’m heading off—can’t stand these parties. Do me a favour and dance with Anne?” He bit back a smile as her eyebrows raised. “I’m concerned no one else will ask her, and you know how shy she is.” 

Anne gaped at him and he nearly burst out laughing.

“I’d be happy to dance with you, Anne,” Haberdash said, perking up.

“That would be wonderful,” she said, turning to smile at him.

“Excellent. Well, it’s settled then.” Severus stood from the table, leaning down to kiss Anne’s cheek. Suddenly all the gawking girls didn’t bother him so terribly. “Have fun, love. Make sure you show him all those movements of art you teach in your classes.”

Apparently that was one tease too many for Anne: with a deadpan stare, she pulled back the delicate golden bracelet on her wrist and snapped it. Severus winced at the sting against his wrist. 

“Come by afterward,” he commanded her with his most predatory smile.

He made his way past the watchful eyes of the students and out of the Great Hall, loosening the clasp of his cloak as if it were a valve on the pressures of the evening. It had actually been a rather fine night, all things considered. And there was still much left to look forward to. A fine night.

“Severus, wait!” an all too familiar voice called from behind him as he crossed the foyer. “I must speak with you.”

“Now is not the time,” he called back, quickening his step. Igor bloody Karkaroff had been trying to get him alone for the past few days. Whatever fears the man needed to confide in a fellow ex-Death Eater, it was nothing Severus cared to hear. Particularly not tonight.

“Please,” Karkaroff begged, chasing after him. “It’s urgent. Haven’t you noticed? It’s getting clearer—”

Severus whirled, cutting him off with the sharpness of his glare. The fool—was he so desperate for an ear that he’d risk spilling out their secret in the middle of the Entrance Hall? Gritting his teeth, Severus stormed over to him. “Not here.”

* * *

“It’s getting clearer,” a man’s voice blubbered from behind the rose bush to their left.

“And what manner of comforting do you expect from me?” an icy voice answered. A voice Harry recognized.

Stopping in his tracks along the decorated courtyard, Harry flung out his hand to grab Ron’s arm. He nudged his head towards the the nearest towering shrub of roses conjured for the evening event and mouthed: _Listen, it’s Snape._ Ron’s eyes went wide.

“Are you not concerned?” the first man asked. “You can’t keep denying it. It’s getting clearer each day.” He sounded strained, as if the words he was whispering were an effort not to scream.

 _Karkaroff,_ Ron mouthed back. He and Harry huddled there in silence in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe.

“Flee, then,” Snape jeered, “if that’s what you intend to do. I for one am not such a coward.” 

“But Severus, you know what lies in store for us if we stay. And what of this new woman of yours?”

Snape scoffed. “What of her?”

“Does she know about the noose you’ve tied around her neck? You’ve gone and flaunted her out in front of hundreds of people. If you care about her, for Merlin’s sake, break it off and keep your distance before he learns of her. Or better yet, run and take her with you.”

 _Swanson?_ Harry and Ron mouthed at the same time.

“Do not project your tender afflictions onto me, Igor,” Snape said coldly. “I amuse myself with women now and then. This one is particularly amusing, and too pretty not to flaunt, but I’ll grow tired of her in time. If _he_ wants to splash around in my old bathwater, he’s welcome to it. Better her than me.”

Footsteps crunched against the gravel and Ron yanked Harry around the edge of the bush just as Snape stomped out from the other side, his wand drawn. One by one, he blasted a row of trembling rose bushes on the opposite side of the courtyard, snarling threats and house point deductions at the snogging students he sent scrambling. A moment later, Karkaroff emerged from around the corner, chasing after Snape with a face nearly pale enough to match him.

“What do you think _that_ was about?” Ron whispered when the two men were out of earshot.

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, sighing, “but Karkaroff sounded pretty worried. And Swanson… Poor Swanson.” She’d looked so happy tonight; she had no idea Snape was just toying with her.

“Kind of serves her right, though,” Ron said sadly, shrugging. “I mean, as far as bad taste in men goes, can you think of anything worse than dating _Snape?”_

Harry shook his head. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.

* * *

Shuffling a vase of centerpiece flowers under her arm, Anne jangled the key into its fob and whispered the long, complicated series of unlocking incantations. When the door opened, she flinched—the light was on and Severus was sitting in his armchair.

“I thought I’d have to wait for you to get home,” Anne said. She kicked off her heeled shoes at his door. “I couldn’t sense you. Is everything okay?”

Severus glanced up as she crossed the room to him, lifting his head out of his hand. “Mmm. I had an unexpected conversation with Karkaroff on my way in. Suppose I kept my guard up afterward out of habit.” He opened then, and his mind was a heavy grey boulder, though just hours ago it had been lighter than she’d ever sensed it. Merlin’s beard, he’d been damned near _boyish_ the way he’d bantered and teased her all night.

“What kind of conversation?” she asked.

“He’s panicked over the mark, and then he started needling at me with all these questions and I had to say to him...” Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind. I don’t want to talk about it. He ruined my night, that’s all.” 

“Maybe we can un-ruin it,” Anne said, projecting out affection as she reached to stroke the back of his head.

“Well if there’s anyone in the world who can...” He gave her a weak smile, then flicked his chin across the room. “Bring that box from the mantle and come and sit with me.”

Grinning, Anne made her way to the hearth. There on the ledge over the fire was a small square chest the size of a tea tin, bowed at the top with a red ribbon. It was made of polished wood, intricately carved with ridges of thorns and roses. The little chest alone would have made a lovely gift, but the weight when she picked it up foretold a treasure within.

“I think you’d better open mine first,” she said, tucking the box in the crook of her elbow so she could snap open her tiny satin clutch. The long wrapped parcel she pulled out was barely narrow enough to fit through the clasp of the purse (which was far from bottomless, but was enchanted large enough on the inside to at least be practical). Curling into the armchair on Severus’s lap, she handed him her gift.

He unwrapped the paper and pulled from the brown kraft box inside a black cloak, seamed with fine silver thread and lined on the inside with dark green silk.

“House colours,” Anne said, “but this one still looks like _you._ I matched the green from the tinted bottles you use for some of your potions.”

Severus held the cloak out in front of him, a small smile playing on his mouth as he swelled out a touched feeling far deeper than her simple gift deserved. “It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever given me,” he said, and the honesty of his words made her heart hurt. He kissed the back corner of her jaw. “Thank you.”

After folding the cloak carefully over the arm of the chair, he reached to lift the little wooden chest off her lap and into her hands. “Happy Christmas, Anne.”

Beaming at him, she flipped back the golden catch on the front, lifted the top and gasped.

Inside, resting on crimson velvet, was a glass orb with the most extravagant fish Anne had ever seen in her life. Its smooth scaled body looked like it had been knitted out of pure gold, with obsidian black stripes shimmering across it like ink swirled in water. It had a ruffled mane and the long fins and tail rippling behind it as it turned were as delicate as rose petals.

“My feelings for you have rather evolved these past months,” Severus said, lifting the sensovial out of its box. “I thought you might enjoy an update.”

Anne gave a tiny squeal, covering her mouth with her hands. “Oh griffins. It’s going to be so intense the first time I touch it. I’m a little nervous.” He laughed, and she buried her face in his hair. 

“Will I get to feel it with you?” he asked. “If you keep projecting to me?”

“I think so. I’ve never done this with another person before.” She turned her face, resting her head on his to gaze at the gift. “It’s so beautiful. I love it.” And then, because she felt it with such overwhelming force at that moment, and because he needed to hear it: “I love you, Sev.”

“Good.” Severus smiled and held up the sensovial to her. “Care to find out whether I love you back?”

She grinned at him. As if he hadn’t been blazing out a swelter of adoration for her all night long.

Anne took a deep breath and reached for the orb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Thank you!
> 
> I would never have had the motivation to see this story through to the end without encouraging comments and kudos from readers like you!
> 
> There are a few readers in particular I want to thank for their ongoing support:
> 
>   * TM, I don’t think I would ever have come back to this story at all if not for your first comment, nor if I would have stuck with it if you hadn’t continued commenting to let me know you were still reading those next several posted chapters.
>   * lefthispower (sellingfauxsermons), your long, gushing comments with your zillion emojis GAVE ME LIFE; I’m considering printing them out to keep by my writing desk for when I feel discouraged.
>   * Pawwwwww, your liking this story enough to want to take the time to translate it makes me feel like an actual legitimate writer, and I’m so overwhelmingly honoured and flattered. 
>   * ATano513, WomanWithaDream and Thexfilestouchstone, you folks swooped in with multiple comments during the later part of the story and really gave me the last burst of energy I needed to see this thing through to the end.
> 

> 
> Thank you to my spouse and my sister, neither of whom will probably read this, but who gave me permission to turn back to this fanfic when I “should” have been pushing through my writer’s block to focus on my original works. I shouldn’t have needed anyone’s permission, but I desperately did.
> 
> And to THANK YOU to everyone else who read, kudo-ed and commented!
> 
> #### Want to read more of my stuff?
> 
> I write CONSTANTLY. If you liked this story and care to continue reading my stuff as I post it on A03 or on Wattpad (original story coming soon!) and hopefully someday in print, I’d be ecstatically happy to keep you informed about what I’m working on and where you can read it. That includes, hopefully, eventually, Part 2 and 3 of this fanfic story.
> 
> [If you want to read more of my stuff, please click here to sign up for my emailing list.](https://mailchi.mp/7e691c072e01/shaylas-readers)
> 
> #### Writing this fanfic changed my life
> 
> On Monday, October 14, 2019, I sat down with my laptop and broke my 15+ year hiatus on novel-writing by beginning this fanfiction story. I wrote as if possessed. That first week, I wrote 24,000 words, most of which weren’t great and have since been rewritten. Then I put it aside and wrote two full drafts of another novel, which turned out to be a hot mess, plot-wise. Then I started another novel, which I’m still working on. Then in May I posted the first 12 chapters of this fanfic on A03, got some encouragement, and started writing the rest of it.
> 
> This story has enormous sentimental value to me, because it’s the story that got me writing again. Fanfiction helped me get over my fears about writing fiction, because I wrote anonymously and I knew I wasn’t writing something I could ever traditionally publish or try to make money off of. And along the way, I learned a lot about writing. And about myself. 
> 
> The stories I’ve written this year, including this one, have been autobiographical in myriad astounding little ways. I’ve _processed some serious shit_ through writing this fanfic, which is probably why there are SO MANY FEELINGS in it. These characters thought or blurted out things that broke me in half, things that I hadn’t been able to find the words to say in my own life or things I didn’t know I desperately needed to hear. They healed me.
> 
> Severus gave me a safe place to pour a lot of my own insecurities and issues and view them in the form of a flawed, loveable character. I could cheer him on with a kindness and a forgiveness I sometimes struggled to extend to myself. Anne bears JUST enough resemblance to me—brunette Canadian artist attracted to smart grouches—to be slightly embarrassing. She’s very much her own person, though, and is in many ways my role model: someone strong enough to risk being deeply vulnerable, who asks for what she wants and accepts the love she needs to bounce back from anything.
> 
> I love both Severus and Anne so much and thank them for what they’ve taught me.
> 
> #### Help me become a better writer
> 
> There’s nothing more valuable to writers than honest, constructive feedback from people who read their work. If you have the time/effort/motivation to comment and share your thoughts on ANY of the following questions (or just give general feedback), you’ll have my overwhelming gratitude!
> 
>   * What parts of this story dragged or didn’t work for you?
>   * What parts particularly appealed to you and kept you coming back for more?
>   * Was there anything you found confusing or unclear?
>   * Did any of the characters say or do anything you found inconsistent or “out of character”?
>   * If and when I get around to writing Part 2, any thoughts on what would you like to read less of and/or more of?
> 



End file.
